


Muting Silent Hill

by Kyn



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: An Incredible Amount of Plot, Befriending the Devil, Comeback, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destroying the cult, F/M, Gore and Death, Healing, Intimacy, Katana, Loss, Lots of Eldrich Occult Stuff, Lots of plot, Making Sense of Dream Logic, Monster-Human Friendship, Monsters, Old Gods, Protagonist is Heather Mason, Psychology, Revenge, Sadness, Silent Hill 3, Survivors Anonymous, badassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 59
Words: 238,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyn/pseuds/Kyn
Summary: Valtiel watched her go, twitching irregularly. When she was gone, he lowered his head and then picked up a stray blonde hair from the ground, and twirled it between his fingers."Are you real?"Heather Mason is a grown-ass adult who's afraid of the dark. What she really needs is a therapist who can help her peel back the layers of that Freudian Madhouse she experienced, but it's kind of hard to find those out in the real world where talking about the split headed dogs you've encountered leads to people assuming you've had a psychotic break with reality.While she and the other Silent Hill Survivors have a bit of a support group in one other, things only really start getting better—and worse—when a strangely benevolent monster starts showing up on her ceiling again...... And as always, things inevitably go back to hell.
Relationships: Heather Mason/Alex Shepherd...? (Can't Be, Heather Mason/Valtiel (Platonic), Right? Not With This Author)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 153





	1. The Goddess was Dead, to Begin With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longfic incoming. Bookmark or subscribe to keep track of it. 
> 
> Primary characters are Heather and Valtiel, with all other Silent Hill survivors eventually appearing as part of a greater network of contacts. Alex Shepherd's going to show up fairly early on looking for answers... and mostly freaking out at her ceiling monster.
> 
> Valtiel/Heather is primarily platonic.

The goddess was dead.

Heather was numb, staring down at the monstrosity that she had slain. Judging by it's twisted and malformed limbs, and it's exposed internals, Claudia had been unable to properly 'birth' it. Well. That explained why the cult hadn't tried to cultivate the fetus in another- more willing- woman. Or maybe it was Heather vomiting the fetus up that had deformed it. Honestly, it was hard to say.

Try as she might, Heather still couldn't explain the insane environment in which she found herself. Everything around her defied logic. Silent Hill was a huge, massive mind fuck. There was no real explanation for the monstrous state of it's inhabitants, or for the paranormal activity within. Just guesses, and half-explanations.

She kicked the goddess's face in frustration. She hated this thing, this evil monster that had consumed her life and for which Claudia had killed her father.

For awhile, Heather had considered the possibility that she was in a coma somewhere. Maybe Silent Hill was a dream. Or maybe she was dead; and Silent Hill actually was hell.

And then she'd been left to wonder whether she was hallucinating; Although the events going on around her were very 'real,' was it possible they were being acted out by normal people, and not by monsters? Maybe, instead of doing battle with a terrible goddess in some wretched supernatural hellhole, she'd actually just stabbed Claudia to death in a back ally dumpster, somewhere. Vincent seemed to imply as much.

She kicked the god's face face again.

In the end, however, after considering all of these possibilities, Heather had been left with a startling realization: It didn't matter what was going on. The only tools she had to rely on were her senses, and so she simply had to rely on them. All she could do was take each fact, each monster, each idea as it was presented to her. She had to suspend her disbelief and bury her frustration, and try to understand Silent Hill before it consumed her. And it appeared she had succeeded. Maybe.

She kicked it again.

Heather didn't know if she'd be able to leave, or if the 'other world' would follow her once more. She couldn't tell if Douglass was a figment of her imagination. Honestly, she half expected that if she went up to find him, he'd have turned into a giant gargoyle beast or something equally sinister. Or maybe when they were driving away from the city, she'd look over to find that he'd disappeared from the vehicle. Then she'd crash, and get amnesia, and wake up in a mental institution.

Stop.

Heather took in a long, slow breath, and then let it out just as slowly.

Whatever Silent Hill flung at her, she was ready. She'd meet it head on, spitting and cursing (and maybe even crying), but she'd meet it. She'd overcome it. She would do everything possible to escape this cursed supernatural hellhole, and, a more benevolent god willing, she'd succeed.

She took in another slow breath, and let it out. Her heartbeat was calming.

Heather turned away from the goddess, shaking slightly and breathing hard. She stumbled some distance from it. "Is that the end?" she whispered. It seemed to have been such. "I guess... it's time to roll the credits."

From what Heather understood, Silent Hill was a paranormal hotspot, brought to life by Alessa. Alessa had been some sort of witch or psychic. Since Heather had been born from Alessa, she'd inherited some of that power.

Perhaps that was why the _Otherworld_ was able to follow her outside of Silent Hill, drawn by Alessa's memories and the presence of the cultists. Or maybe the _Otherworld_ was some sort of warped defense mechanism that Heather had also inherited. But now that everything was over, could she leave?

Any way once sliced it, Claudia was dead and the goddess had been thwarted. Alessa no longer had any reason to fear Heather's continued survival. It was possible- likely, even- that the _Otherworld_ would let her go, and she'd be able to go back to a semi-normal life. Semi.

She ducked her head as a surge of emotion erupted through her chess, and her face contorted as if in pain. "Dad..." she moaned, and then slowly slipped to the bloodstained ground, tears forming in her eyes. Agony, grief, loneliness shuttled through her, causing her body to contort spasmodically. "...Dad..." she sobbed. She cried, and her voice emerged as a tiny whimper.

Her father would want her to go on. He'd want her to fight... like _he_ had, so very long ago. She'd be able to go back to a semi-normal life; she had to believe that. And she'd know the truth soon enough. Her back straightened, and her shoulders rolled back. Heather would need the help of a dedicated shrink to ever fully recover from this experience, but right now she was as strong as she could be given her current circumstances.

She took in a final slow breath, and then slowly strode forward into the inky blackness of Silent Hill. The darkness of this place had always frightened her, but now it seemed so much less intimidating than what she had faced and left behind...

Something moved.

Heather jerked her head to the side and peered into the darkness, brows narrowed. "Silent Hill, if you spring another monster in my face right now, I'm going to go batshit crazy on it's face," the teenager muttered, now back in control of herself.

For a moment, all was still. Then the darkness parted, and a writhing, spasming form crawled into the dim lighting. Man-shaped but down on all fours like a beast, this creature was immediately familiar to Heather. It slunk across the floor like a lizard or puma; graceful after a fashion, but violently epileptic. She hesitated at the sight of them, and then her shoulders relaxed a bit.

"Oh," she said, and she was a little surprised to hear relief in her voice. "You." It wasn't that she was _happy_ to see the monster exactly; but in Heather's experience the twitchy boogieman had never once attempted to harm her.

The creature paused with one hand held puppet-like in midair. It lifted his torso a few inches higher off the ground and twisted towards her, as if it had just become aware of her presence and was surprised. The head quivered rapidly back and forward.

Heather grimaced. "Look, I have no idea if you understand me, but if you're pissed at me for killing the giant, angry, evil thing," she jerked her thumb at the enormous body of the goddess, "then can we just fight now and get it over with? Because I really don't want to go home, spend a few years of blissful relaxation, and then have another supernatural crisis fall in my lap. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to tie up the loose ends now."

The creature continued to twitch for a moment, and then slowly crawled up to the body of the fallen god. He (Heather presumed it was a 'he', although she alternated between thinking of him as both 'it' and 'he', depending on his actions) was carrying a dirty sheet, and he unfurled it messily before starting to pull it over the dead goddess's body.

"Right," she muttered. "You do that." She couldn't help but feel slightly curious as to what he was doing. Even though Silent Hill defied the laws of physics, it had a very strange and almost ritualistic system of rules on which it operated. In lieu of physics, she supposed. There was likely incredibly significance to this bizarre burial.

The twitching creature just continued, pulling the sheet fully over the goddess's face, and smoothing the fabric with it's hands.

Heather grunted. "As usual, you go about your business and completely ignore me. Unless I'm dying."

The head twitched in her direction, and the creature paused in his activities. He went very still and seemed quite surprised. Heather lifted a brow and crossed her arms over her chest, a curious expression on her face. "That was a bluff," she told him. The head tilted to the side. "I wasn't exactly sure what happened, but that little jump of yours just gave it away: You have been saving me."

The creature ducked his head slightly, his fingers kneading the sheet, almost as if embarrassed to have revealed anything about his enigmatic nature to her. He began twitching again.

Heather should have turned around and left. She should have gotten as far as she could from Silent Hill... But something compelled her to stay just a moment longer. To find out more about this horror that had engulfed her life. Maybe if the _Otherworld_ failed to release her, or if it ever returned again in the future, she would be better equipped to fight it.

She took a slow step towards the goddess's body, stepping around it's tattered carcass and moving slowly towards the twitching creature. He watched her approach quietly. Heather felt remarkably fearless.

He didn't exactly look _harmless;_ he was shaped like a powerful man with coiled muscles visible down the length of his arms, and he was wearing a filthy smock that could have belonged to a clergyman or a butcher. Yet at the same time, _Otherworld_ monsters usually emenated a feeling of insane and tortured malice. This twitching, spasmodic creature had never conveyed anything even remotely hostile. Not towards her.

"You're... What could I call you...? Those marks on your shoulders, I saw them up close earlier... They're like this talisman..."

Heather had almost forgotten about the Seal of the Metatron, and she slowly reached into her clothing and drew it out.

"Claudia said it wouldn't protect me, but I could tell it slowed the birthing down. I was told that 'Metatron' means 'Attendant to God'." A sudden realization dawned on her, and she glared up at the twitching being. She took a step closer, and then another, until they were only separated by a few feet. The creature didn't move, still perched on the goddess's carcass. His arm was turned towards her, and now she could clearly make out the symbol carved into his flesh. It was the Seal of the Metatron!

Heather sneered. "So that's what you are, hmm? Not a warrior, just a stooge? You haven't attacked me, because that's not your job. _Your _job was to help with the god's birthing, and you needed to keep me alive in order for that to happen. You're just here to bury her."

The twitching creature continued to watch her. He was very quiet, as usual, although not entirely silent. His range of noises consisted of small hisses, gurgles, and snorts. He emitted them quietly and in no particular order, and they blended in with Silent Hill's usual ambiance.

Heather's eyes narrowed and she took another step towards him, wondering what it was she felt stirring in her gut. Hate, perhaps? What if this Metatron somehow 'revived' the god, or if he set new problems into motion? Maybe he would feature in some ritual that would re-impregnate Heather and start this nightmare all over again- she definitely could not allow that. But she didn't necessarily feel _hate_. More like... betrayal. For a moment, she had thought that this creature was directly linked to Alessa, and had been trying to honestly and simply protect her.

"You-... you... something dragged Claudia down here. Something killed her. Okay, well, maybe it was a combination of the birthing and the fall that killed her... I mean she does look like she disintegrated... but something _roared _and dragged her down here. Something that moved too quickly for me to see. It broke up the concrete and metal! That was you, wasn't it? Why the hell did you attack her? She was birthing your god!"

The twitching creature, of course, did not respond. He did seem fairly interested in her, however. Although his head twitched at an inhuman rate, the general lean of his body still suggested that he was most definitely looking at her.

Heather fumbled for answers to her own questions. Claudia had admitted that causing Heather so much pain was sinful, but then she was a deluded woman who served a creepy god who liked to paint her abode with blood and create twitchy-headed Metatrons.

"You killed Claudia because she ate up the fetus. You killed her because I was the only one who could bear the god properly, and she screwed things up. She said she'd sinned in trying to hasten the birth of god, and Vincent agreed she'd gone too far. Or maybe it wasn't because she tried to save god, but she did _something _wrong, and that's why you mauled her."

As more mysteries met with their explanations, Heather grabbed her handgun and lifted it up, pointing it at the spasmodic creature's head. Then, realizing she'd be hard-pressed to hit a constantly moving target, she lowered the gun to point at the Metatron's chest.

"So why the fuck haven't you killed me! I'm the one who refused to bear the god, I'm the one who threw her up! And then I fucking _killed_ her! That was _my _choice! I'm the one who doesn't want a giant, evil, angry, horrible god living in this world! Me!"

The Metatron continued to watch her. She was _sure_ he was watching her, as she had been sure over the last few minutes. His head was pointed in her general direction, even if his face was nothing more than panels of leather flesh sewn together. In any event, he did not seem provoked by her taunts. He didn't display any emotion at all.

Heather swore. She didn't lower the gun, but she could not bring herself to pull the trigger. Whatever the motives of this monster might have been, he did not appear willing to harm her. Silent Hill hadn't thrown many friends her way. The Metatron had never tried to hurt her her, and had never directly led her into harm. His presence had always been at once eerie and somehow comforting.

In fact, Heather never even been attacked while in his vicinity. Once she'd discovered that his presence repelled Silent Hill's other inhabitants, she'd actually started to make use of his appearances. Whenever he showed up, she'd reload her guns, bandage her wounds, have allow herself to cry for a few minutes.

For a long time, neither she nor the Metatron moved. At long last, he turned and used all of his fingers to tap a thick leather curtain behind the goddess.

Heather frowned. During her battle with the goddess, her adversary had been largely confined to one location. It appeared that she had been tied to the thick curtain behind her- the same one that at times had shielded her face from Heather's bullets. Still, it had prevented the goddess from crawling around the room after Heather, and, by that virtue, it may have saved the teen's life. Now that she looked, it appeared that a black cord was wrapped around the goddess's hips.

That was puzzling. Like everything else in Silent Hill, it appeared that the Metatron was unwilling to make sense.

"Her face was her weak point... and you covered her face with this leather curtain," she said slowly. "Like a veil. I learned a lot in this town, and the goddess was supposed to wear a red veil that made her invulnerable." The Metatron's twitching stilled somewhat, adding some support to her theories. "But... but you also bound her in place? Why, so she wouldn't move away from the veil? No offense, but if she had been able to follow me, I would have been screwed."

The Metatron seemed unoffended by her insinuation that he had hastened his deity's death. Not for the first time, Heather considered that the things in Silent Hill might only have had behaviors and purposes, but no real intentions. No real minds or personalities or goals. …

Then again, maybe he just didn't really understand her. This was the first time she'd ever been in a position to talk to a monster, and it was certainly a new experience for her.

Heather shook her head, confused. "And you where down here the whole time, while I was shooting bullets into her skull, and you didn't do anything to help her? I saw what you did to Claudia, you're not helpless."

The Metatron still didn't move except to twitch and make soft gurgling noises. Bewildered, Heather just kept shaking her head.

He had let her kill the goddess, and he had saved her life in doing so. Furthermore, Leonard Wolfe had believed that the Seal of the Metatron could prevent the goddess from being born. Certainly, Heather had been forced to use herbs to abort the god, but it appeared that the Seal had at least slowed the birth.

And, then again, Heather had heard the seal called a great many things, such as the 'Crest of Virun VII'. Which, if Heather was parsing things right, meant that the seal might mean a great many things to a great many people. Perhaps it was not tied as intimately to the cult's goddess as one might imagine. And perhaps the Metatron was less a god-thing, and more a figment of Silent Hill.

Heather was quiet for a long moment, staring up in bewilderment at the faceless being. Then she sighed. "I have no idea where to draw the line between 'stuff Alessa dreamed up' and 'evil cult/god shit.' Maybe it all just burrs together."

He had the decency to purr slightly, indicating that her final statement might not have been far from the mark.

Heather grimaced. After awhile, she lowered her gun. "I think any cult that requires immense hatred and death in order to bring a god into the world is evil, just so you know. I'm not particularly happy with you for helping them."

He gave something between a whinny, a grunt, and a snort (all of which were clearly inhuman), and twitched, as per usual. Apparently he did not associated himself with the cult. That was somewhat comforting, even though it was possible that he didn't associate himself with the cult because he saw himself as above them. But he _had_ mauled Claudia, and he _hadn't_ killed Heather.

"I have the strangest feeling that if I were some sort of symbolist or mythology major, I'd have a much better idea what the flying fuck is going on down here," she grumbled. "You were always turning valves before. Why?"

Seeing that she was no longer angry, the creature turned back to pulling his sheet over the fallen goddess. He didn't stand, creeping around the goddess's body like some sort of arboreal lizard. Heather watched him quietly, studying the split flesh along his arms, the puppet-like gestures of his hands, and the black laces tracing up his back. He was perversely fascinating.

As much of a mind fuck as Silent Hill was, there was so much depth to it. Like an endlessly spiraling mental patient's brain.

"Are you real?" Heather couldn't help but ask. The creature twitched his head in her direction and paused again. "Are you real? Are you from an actual heaven or hell? Are you a hallucination of mine, or maybe of Claudia's? Are you supernatural, or psychological? Are you here by the will of the cult and their goddess, or are you here because of Alessa's delusions? If anyone else was here, could they see you? Could you leave Silent Hill? Do you exist?"

She shivered slightly as she questioned him. Despite her earlier resolution, Silent Hill had never been so still and calm... It was disconcerting.

The creature slowly docked his head to the side, and then jumped to the ground. Heather took an involuntary step backwards, and eyed him warily as he slowly rose to hunched but bipedal position. He took a step towards her, and then another, his gloved fingers grasping at the air. Then he carefully straightened, his spine uncoiling vertebrae by vertebrae. His shoulders rolled back, and his legs straightened. Suddenly he was a great deal taller than her, and of an imposing presence and weight.

Heather gripped her gun but didn't lift it, her brows furrowed in confusion. After a long moment of very mild twitching, the Metatron lifted a hand. His movement were slow, unhostile, and careful. He reached forward, and tapped her on the nose.

Heather stared at him.

He pulled his hand back a little and then jerked his head to the side, as if asking: 'So, what do you think? Real or not real?'

Heather opened her mouth and then closed it. She frowned, and then slowly lifted her hand, and touched his. Although red latex covered his malformed fingers, the heat of life emanated from within him. If he was nothing more than a hallucination, he was a very good one. He seemed mildly surprised at her touch, and his fingers flinched slightly away from hers before going still.

Heather looked hesitantly up at the monster's facelessness. Details stood out to her: the blood and grit marring his smock; the leathery texture of the material; the slick black material framing his neck; the waxy wrinkles of his flesh. She could _smell_ him; the odor was metallic and mildly like sea spray. This was not a hallucination. This was too vivid; too real.

A shudder slipped down her back, because a _monster_ was standing over her, 'staring' at her, and yet behaving as docile as a lamb. He was eerie. Shocking, and eerie and unsettling; But... but not exactly frightening.

Heather looked slowly down at his gloves, noting for the first time that several of his fingers were stuck together.

"Your fingers... and your face... the flesh has all run together. That happens in recovering burn victims, doesn't it? People like Alessa. But you also look like one of the gods depicted in the cult's paintings." She looked up at his face. "You're like half and half. Half psychotic, evil god attendant; half unhappy, little girl delusion."

He gurgled-growled.

"... You also sound almost exactly like a tiger. Like, every sound you make is either tiger-ish, or sounds like what I'd expect a dinosaur to sound like," she noted dryly. "How do you even make sounds? Your mouth never moves."

He twitched and pulled his head back, and then crouched slightly and docked his head to the side. To Heather's horror, a slit opened up in the side of his head, and a tongue pushed out and wove through the air. She stiffened.

"Oh," she mumbled quietly. "Of course. Your actual mouth is on the side of your head. Clearly. Why did I not see that coming? No pantheon would be complete without a god or angel who has a mouth on the side of his head."

Apparently realizing that he'd been distracted from his work, he growled harmlessly,dissolved back to all fours, and turned back towards the goddess. Heather blinked in surprise and, despite her earlier disgust, she reached forward quickly and grabbed his shoulder. Some of the tissue just beneath his shoulder was raw and bloody, and not at all pleasant to the touch

"Wait!" she called nevertheless.

Once more he flinched down from her, and whipped his head around to 'look' in her direction.

Heather swallowed, her fingers releasing and then touching his shoulder again. He was definitely warm, although his skin was leathery and taut. _Why the hell aren't you hostile towards me? _she thought. Then a weirder thought occurred to her: _Why aren't I more hostile towards you? S_he couldn't help but wonder if maybe Alessa had poured memories of a protective or fatherly figure into this creature. With a gulp, she realized that he might have been the same height as Harry Mason. "Am I done?" she asked him weakly. "Can I leave? Or is all of this just going to follow me?"

Although the Metatron's primary drive might have been to ensure the birth of the goddess, there seemed some merit in the idea that he had also been built from some of Alessa's more positive memories. After a moment, he slowly swiveled back towards her (although he did not stand up), and gave her a gentle push. It was not exactly an answer, but it was sufficient. She took a deep breath, and nodded. Despite herself, a few more tears formed in her eyes. Resigned tears.

"T-thank you," she mumbled. "Thank you for the things you did to help me." She had the strangest urge to hug the frightening monster, but as he was crouched down and she was standing, it would have been difficult to pull off with any grace. She took a slow step away from him, and then another, and then she turned and slowly headed off to leave Silent Hill behind her forever.

Valtiel watched her go, twitching irregularly. When she was gone, he lowered his head and then picked up a stray blonde hair from the ground, and twirled it between his fingers.

_"Are you real?"_

He lifted his head and gazed silently after her for a moment. Then he became aware of his task again. He made as if to discard the hair; but after a moment he folded the strand into the curve of his palm and closed his fist around it.

_Are you real..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is older than my other works (and so there is some immaturity to my style) but I realized it's one of those works I want to keep coming back to, and it deserves to be here, on this site, where people can find it.


	2. Attendant to God

Cheryl sighed, looking across the room at her dresser. The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of her night light.

After all that she'd been through in her twenty-six years, she had a certain dislike of the dark. It had grown over the years, that fear. She hadn't had it as a teenager, walking out of Silent Hill. But as the shadows of that fateful experience had grown longer and longer, overshadowing more of her life... 

Well, her newest therapist had done wonders for her, but he hadn't dispelled her growing fear of the dark... not yet. And she somehow doubted he ever would be able to. He was willing to listen to her grotesque and horrific stories about Silent Hill—stuff that sounded like magical thinking to other people—but these days any limitation to her sense of sight always started reminding her of the _otherworld_.

She closed her eyes and then rolled over onto her back, and took in a long, deep breath. Then she opened her eyes, and her heart nearly stopped.

The room was pitch black.

_Oh hell no.The nightlight went out. Breathe. Breathe._

Cheryl let out a muffled cry and covered her mouth. She breathed in deeply and then pulled her covers over her head.

She needed to get out of bed. She needed to get out of bed, and to cross the room, and to turn the light on.

She couldn't do it.

Fuck, she had to.

Cheryl took in a deep breath, and then pulled her blankets around her. She pulled one over her head like a hook, and wrapped it about her neck and shoulders, and let it drape in thick waves around her arms. Then she wrapped another around her legs, and made sure that each of her feet were fully enveloped in cloth.

Painfully, agonizingly, she slipped out of bed, ready at any moment for something to jump out under her bed and grab her. It didn't matter whether she was a genuine psychic or a hallucinating madwoman- her fears could hurt her, and she had the scars to prove it.

Nothing grabbed at her ankles. She took in a deep, slow breath, and then shuffled unhappily to the side of her room. She kept her hands fully bundled in cloth as she reached out to feel for the lightswitch, and after a moment, she flicked it to the 'on' position.

Nothing happened. Cheryl gulped, and leaned into the wall, shaking and covering her face with her blankets.

_It's okay, a fuse must have blown. Just go back to bed. You can wake up tomorrow with the dawn, and see to the fuse when it's bright out._

She had to shuffle back to bed, which was another nightmare, and she climbed torturously back onto the open palette. After a moment, she reached over to her nightstand. She had a flashlight in it. She paused.

_Do I really want to see the room, poorly illuminated, with shadows all over the place? I should just go to bed. I really just need to go to bed._

Soft, gurgling noises rippled through the room.

_Oh. My. God._

Cheryl lunged for her nightstand, knocking it over and furiously digging out not only her flashlight, but also her handgun. She fumbled with the flashlight's switch and then turned it on. It came on with a burst of radiance, and she rolled onto her back, pointing both it and the handgun furiously around the room.

Nothing. She peered under the bed, and then got up and stalked around her room, shedding her blankets in lieu of a stronger shield: force of will. Nothing. Not on this side of her bed, not on that. Not under the dressers or in the closet.

_… I … I must have been hearing things_, she reasoned. _The trees groaning outside, maybe. Or the squirrels._She took in a deep breath, and then slowly moved back to her nightstand. She righted it, and then tossed her blankets onto the bed and spread them around. She was shaking slightly.

_I've got to calm down. I wasn't this scared in Silent Hill. I'm killing myself with these fears..._

She laid back down on her bed and pulled her blankets up to her chin. After a moment, she arranged a blanket about her head, so it was covering her hair and the sides of her face, a psychologically protective shield against her nightmares. She slipped her handgun onto her nightstand, and clutched her flashlight to her chest.

_Breathe deep_. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. A breeze tickled her chin.

_Breeze?_

Cheryl's eyes opened wide, and she twisted her head to the side. Her bedroom window was open. For a moment, she was paralyzed. Then she jerked as if to sit up, and something above her caught her sight.

A faceless head stared down at her, several feet above her own. It was twitching and convulsing spasmodically. Metatron was hanging weightlessly from her wall, with his hands and feet pressed firmly against the smooth paint. He had no hand or foot holds, and was clearly defying gravity.

Of all the things Cheryl could have felt at that moment, the mixture of anger and relief she experienced was not at all what she expected. "You!" she cried out, sitting up and twisting to look at him. "What the hell! If you drag me into another supernatural mind fuck, I'm going to strangle you, you hear me! If I so much hear or see the name 'Silent Hill'..."

The metatron growled harmlessly, and didn't move from his position.

Cheryl frowned, pulling her blankets protectively around her as she got a good look at the monster suspended from her bedroom wall. She scanned over his limbs with his flashlight, confirming that he was doing something decidedly supernatural by hanging there. Her light moved back to his face. His tongue had slipped out of his mouth and was waving about in the air.

"Stop that!" she called. "What are you doing here? And before you ask- no, I am not going to birth a god for you!"

He retracted his tongue, but seemed otherwise unaffected by her words. After a moment he started crawling horizontally across her wall, and moving nearer to her dresser. The fact that he wasn't doing anything even remotely productive assuaged her. The first time she'd encountered the metatron, he'd sent her down a creepy elevator, facilitating her journey into hell, so to speak. The fact that he wasn't opening any doors into the _otherworld_ was somewhat comforting.

Still, Cheryl shuddered. "Okay, so you're not here to drop me down any more elevator shafts. That's a start," she grumbled. Looking somewhat curious, he reached down and plucked articles from her dresser. He examined each item with his fingers and then put it back in its proper place. First he picked up some pictures (which it appeared he could see), and then her various makeup boxes and old pill bottles. He tasted a few things with his tongue (which Cheryl yelled at him for).

Cheryl shifted slightly, and then sighed. Praying she wasn't about to fall into an alternate dimension, she stood up and walked over to where he was hanging. She swiped a perfume bottle from his fingers and then gave his hand a gentle slap when he tried to grab it back from her. His arms recoiled from the hit.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" she enunciated clearly, staring up at the leathery face of the metatron.

Although that 'face' wasn't exactly expressive, Cheryl gathered that he seemed somewhat perplexed.

Cheryl grimaced and then elaborated. "You're from Silent Hill. You have no idea how much therapy I'm going to need to get over you being here. So what are you doing here? Do I have to save the world from you and that crazy ass cult again?"

He growled, and batted her her flashlight. Cheryl batted back. Apparently he didn't like its exceptionally bright light.

"And that's another thing! Turn the blasted power back on! Good god, I'm terrified of the dark!"

The lights flickered and then came on to a dim glow. Cheryl looked around and then swallowed hard. She half expected the twitching creature to have vanished, but he was still hanging in the corner of her bedroom when she looked back towards him. He continued to bat at her flashlight, which began to flicker. Unwilling to let Metatron completely disable her one trustworthy source of light, Cheryl obediently turned the flashlight off.

"There, are you happy now?" she grumbled.

The metatron grabbed for her perfume bottle. She sprayed him in the face, and he let out a startled hiss. Lightning quick, he was plastered up against the ceiling, rubbing his face into his arm. Cheryl shook her head, and then broke out laughing.

"Did Alessa ever own a cat? You are such a cat."

The metatron growled, rubbing his face thoroughly into his arm. Then he looked back down at her. She coyly offered him the perfume bottle, and he recoiled from it, shuffling over to peruse the other items on her dresser.

"The _hell_ are you doing?" she asked for the umpteenth time, setting the perfume back on her dresser, and watching as he shuffled through her belongings. "I see covert ops isn't your strong suite. You're supposed to gather intelligence while your opponent isn't staring at you, you know."

He glanced at her. She shook her head in disbelief. "Metatron, please tell me I'm not going to suddenly fall into some _otherworld_ sinkhole. Please. _Please_."

He stilled in his twitching for a moment and regarded her quietly. Then he slowly picked up one of her lipstick tubes and pulled the cap off. He twisted the barrel so that the lipstick was protruding a few centimeters from the top, and then turned it and pressed it against her vanity mirror. It took her a moment to realize that he was writing letters, his handwriting was so crude.

"VALTIEL," he spelled, and the calligraphy would have down a psycho-ward inmate proud.

Cheryl blinked, confused and somewhat taken aback. All of Silent Hill's monsters were mute and animalistic. The idea that the metatron could write was disconcerting. Certainly, she spoke to him as if he could understand English, but he acted as if he only understood a fraction of what was said.

"V-valtiel..." she said slowly. "That's a name of one of the Order's sects. The Sect of Valtiel."

Metatron smudged his own face with lipstick. Cheryl paled. "That's you? That's your name?"

He offered her the lipstick.

She didn't take it, recoiling back from him and breathing deeply. "You- then you _are_ the metatron! You are the 'Attendant to God'!" She grimaced, taking a step backwards. "What do you want!" she cried, voice suddenly hoarse, her eyes burning and her heat racing.

His reaction surprised her. For a moment he shrunk back from her. Then he slammed the lipstick into the mirror and furiously smeared out the name he had written. He splattered makeup all over the glass, and scratched the surface with the metal of the lipstick tube.

Heather winced, and then reached forward and grabbed his arm. He paused and 'looked' at her. For a moment, both were very still, with only light twitches on Valtiel's part.

"You-" she began, and faltered. After a moment, she tried again, her voice cracking in bewilderment. "You didn't come for any reason," she realized. "You-... You're... You're _visiting_ me?" Visiting. The word was strange, just rolling off her lips, but it was the closest approximation she could make.

The creature which might have been a demon or angel, an executioner or life giver, a monster or protector, was surprisingly still for a very long moment.

Cheryl was quiet, observing him curiously. After a long moment, she lifted a hand and gently touched his leathery face.

Metatron gave a profuse shudder, and his head began to twitch again. His limbs were still frozen in place, his left hand hovering near the mirror, still clutching the spent lipstick tube. She set her flashlight down on the dresser counter, and then pulled the lipstick from his hand. She set the makeup down, and then lifted that hand to his face as well, feeling over the lines and seams in the leathery skin, and moving near (but not touching) the mouth in the side of his head.

The monstrous being hanging on her wall was both docile and quiet, letting her examine him. He still twitched slightly, but the movements didn't hamper her. Beneath the leathery hide, he did have a jawbone in the standard, human position, but the flesh and bone had melded together into a solid wall at the front of his face, rendering it non-functional. Two of the seams in his face could definitely have once been lips, but he did not have anything resembling eye sockets, a nose, or ears. He did have high cheekbones, though.

"Well," she managed after a moment, confused but calm, "I suppose being haunted by strangely friendly, wall-climbing boogiemen is preferable to being dropped into hell. Promise me I wont be making any trips to the _otherworld_ any time soon, and I promise not to throw any fits or shoot at you. Deal?"

The metatron growled, his arms moving and his blunted fingers gently touching her arms. This whole episode was making her slightly heady, it was so much unlike what she had come to expect of Silent Hill. There was a monster in her room. The monster had lipstick smeared on his cheek, and seemed very innocently curious about her. This was not right. She should be in the _otherworld_, fighting for her life against strangely sexual and otherwise vulgar creatures, tortured representations of the damned.

Hell, Valtiel should have attacked her after she had finished fighting the goddess- not even necessarily because he hated her, or because she deserved to die, or because he was the attendant to that evil god, but because he was from Silent Hill, and _everything_ in Silent Hill was monstrous, destructive, and mindless. It was Silent Hill. It devoured unwary minds. The simple fact that she had felt some bizarre trust towards him should have caused the entire city to rebel, and forge him into a monster beyond even her most terrible imaginings.

And yet the monster on her wall was making soft growls and snorts and even slight purring sounds. Maybe Alessa had done something to him.

The lights went out and then came on at full brightness. Valtiel was nowhere to be seen.

Cheryl Mason gave a long sigh and lifted her hands in a 'why me?' apostrophe. "You know," she shouted to the empty room, "it would be nice if you'd visited in the early evening and not while I'm trying to sleep. Just a thought." The room was silent. She went to bed with both her handgun and flashlight in hand.


	3. Irrelevant Occupation

Before the events of Silent Hill, Cheryl Heather Mason had never thought much about what she'd wanted to do with her life. She'd only been in her mid-teens at the time. Her father had started talking to her about college, and had showed her the letters from several universities, and but that life had still been eons away, by young Heather's reckoning.

When she finally escaped from Silent Hill, it was very difficult trying to have a 'normal' life. All Cheryl really wanted to was to go home to her loving father and spend a thousand years in his care. The harsh truth of life was that she was now orphaned, and had to provide for herself.

By some wonderful twist of karma, things had gone smoothly. Douglas had helped her see that Harry's assets were liquidated and put into a fund that would be locked until she turned eighteen. Although child services had eventually sent her to live with distant relatives, she had been able to maintain a correspondence with Douglas, and had come to think of him as a paternal figure. Something like an uncle.

She had never bonded with the cousins who raised her for those last two years, but they had not treated her poorly. It had been difficult for her to readjust to high school, and she had considered dropping out. Douglas had plead with her to continue.

She had been given one gift in exchange for the torment she endured: inspiration. Cheryl had started sketching in charcoal soon after her return from the haunted village- and had written poetry and prose to match. Although her sketches were usually dark and disconcerting, they appeared to impress her art teachers.

A few years later, and she had successfully completed an arduous but rewarding bachelor's degree at an institute of the arts. Her paintings had found their way into art galleries, and her sketches had gone into a great many horror novels. She had even produced concept art for video games and movies. The art helped her cope. She drew horrible images; and also pleasant ones. The horrible ones helped her vomit out the anger and trauma she'd bottled up. The pleasant ones made her feel accomplished and whole.

Cheryl now had a small studio just inside the city, a warehouse where she could drape large canvasses. It had been fairly cheap to purchase, but she spent a great deal of her time here. Artists didn't have a steady source of income, and she had to produce a wide variety of art in order to make ends meet.

At the moment, she was working on a small portrait of her psychiatrist, which was a more personal image than her usual fare. It was one of her calmer works, with natural lighting and a slightly pleasant feeling to it. The man had been a positive force in her life, and she felt no compulsion to add any surreal or horresque twists to the picture.

She dabbed yellow onto the canvas, brightening the flesh tones and adding some more life to the image. There. That was better. For a moment, she'd been worried that she'd overworked the image.

Cheryl suddenly yawned, and covered her mouth. "Hmm. What time is it?" The one downside of working in a warehouse was that she had no windows. There was no change in lightning to mark the passing of time. A glance at the clock on her wall told her that it was ten, and well past time for her to return home. Cheryl tried to be out of the warehouse before five, in order to drive home while the sun was still in the sky. Unlike the average artist, she was completely diurnal. "... I really need to get an alarm clock in here," she growled, and dropped her palette unceremoniously onto a nearby table. "Crap. Now I have to walk, drive..." she waved a hand irritably, "all in the dark. After what happened last night. Great. Good job, Heather." She winced. "Cheryl," she corrected herself.

She started to remove her apron, and glanced at her palette.

"HEATHER," was crudely painted in red, splashed across her tabletop.

Cheryl stiffened and then quickly spun around, looking over the warehouse from top to bottom. "Valtiel?" she called, and could not hide the uncertainty from her voice. "Valtiel, are you here?"

An answering series of growls issued from behind her. She spun around again to find the monster perched in his gravity defying fashion upon her primary work wall, peering down at her latest portrait. His body was twitching in it's usual fashion.

"You certainly have a taste for entrances," she growled back at him, and planted her hands on her hips. "Maybe if you stick around I'll get used to you. Then if I ever have to go back to Silent Hill, I'll be desensitized. Oh, an evil deformed monster stuck in a spiked cage, spitting out stillborn babies that explode on contact? Yawn. Old news."

Valtiel lifted his head a little, and despite his vigorous twitching he was certainly looking at her. Then he tapped the edge of the canvas.

Cheryl sighed. "That's my psychiatrist. He's a good man." She hesitated. "Please don't... like... hurt him, or anything."

The metatron growled inhumanly, and then turned and crawled closer to more of her paintings, looking at each and touching the edges of the canvases. She watched him for awhile and then slowly moved towards the edge of her warehouse. She grabbed a fresh canvas, already primed, and slowly lifted it up. Valtiel affected not to notice her as she quietly hung the canvas on the work wall.

She doubted she had very long before the metatron decided to vanish on her, so she didn't try to retriever her palette. Instead she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out several sticks of black, brown, and white conte crayon.

As usual, Valitel was shrouded in dim light (despite the fact that her warehouse was covered in flood lights), and his twitching made it difficult to see all of him. Still, she had seen the unnerving creature a great many times before. Her crayon touched the canvas and began moving quickly, spreading thick bands of tone and color.

Immediately, Valtiel spasmed and whirled about, looking at her. Cheryl blinked. Her crayon paused momentarily and then began working frantically. Metatron growled and then quickly came up to her canvas, and craned down to see it.

She drew out the central crease in the image's face, a constant and unmoving smile in the leathery folds.

The reference for her drawing was twitching more violently than usual, and appeared to be slightly unhappy about being sketched. He reached down with his Dr. Suess-esque gloves and touched the image appraisingly. Cheryl dared to bat away his hand.

"Careful, careful, or you'll smudge it the wrong way..." she muttered, using the side of her hand to properly spread the conte pigment around, so that it wasn't as vulnerable to Valtiel's questing fingers. She used the excess coloration to add texture and lines to the leathery face. He grumbled, but watched her work.

A band of thick, black conte underscored the drawing's jawline, giving it shape and at the same time forming his neck. The black bled downward and then quickly formed into the metatron's distinctive smock, where all three crayons worked in tandem to approximate a dirty and worn texture. She could fill in details later. She had to get an approximation in place in case her subject vanished.

She drew him in a fairly twisted position, with his back partially facing the viewer, and looking over his shoulder. She had to step back from the canvas in order to see what his smock looked like from behind, and hoped that he didn't trash her canvass while she was away from it. He didn't. There was lacing from the top of his neck down to the small of his back. It looked like a giant, intricate shoelace. His constant twitching made it difficult to see the area about his face, but she caught a glimpse of two thick straps that held the smock over his shoulders.

She came back up to the canvass, and quickly sketched the lacing into place. Then she fished out an eraser to pull his shoulder straps out of the blackness of his neck.

Metatron continued to growl and twitch, and occasionally smeared her drawing.

"Hey, hey!" she chastised, as he left dirty fingerprints all over the work. "Bad creepy boogieman, bad!" She grabbed his arms, trying to avoid the raw flesh stretching up the backs of his forearms, and attempted to push him back up the wall and away from her drawing. He complained vocally, yowling at her and skittering in the direction she was pushing him. He grumbled down at her for a moment and then quickly dove downwards and snatched her chalk, and carved a large white 'X' into the sketch. Cheryl swore and grabbed his arm. Muscles flexed under her fingers, and for a moment she was keenly aware that this creature was strong enough to break concrete and bend metal. He'd certainly done so when he'd mauled Claudia.

Despite that, he froze instantly as if he had no more strength than a small toddler. "Why would you do that?" she asked him, and glanced briefly at her sketch. It could be saved. All she had to do was scratch out the white in a few place, and use her fingers to smudge it in others. She looked back at his face, and wondered why he was acting so strangely about being sketched. "Why would you try to ruin something you see me working so hard on?"

The metatron convulsed and then reached down and placed his palm flat against her waist. Cheryl paled and frowned. Then her eyes narrowed, her old fire burning up the uncertainty and fear. "Bullshit," she snarled at him. "My sketch isn't going to kill you or bring about an apocalypse. That's a terrible analogy! The only thing I've ever seen monsters from Silent Hill do is destroy stuff. I'm trying to draw a picture!"

He growled, his fingers clenching slightly and brushing over the rough fabric of her apron. She scoffed at what appeared to be a veiled threat.

"Are you going to throw a tantrum? Because you've had plenty of more dramatic opportunities to kill me," she asked him irritably.

He gave a slightly broken growl, shrinking back from her and drawing his hand back to himself. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then, much to her surprise, he started rubbing at the offending chalk-marks he'd left in her sketch, attempting to obfuscate them.

Cheryl was quiet for a moment. Then she gently pushed him up above the drawing so she could see what she was doing. She let him work at the chalk marks as she set down new lines of conte. Some of the dried blood from his arms had come off on her fingers. Although it was slightly morbid, she rubbed the red pigment into the gloves of her drawn image.

Behind Cheryl's head, the clock slowly wound up to midnight, and then descendant towards the early morning hours. She continued to draw, sketching every blemish in the dirty smock and the leathery face, and making sure to accentuate the fused fingers. He vanished somewhere around five in the morning. Exhausted but content, Cheryl stood back to admire her handiwork. She took an eraser and dabbed out the remnants of the chalk lines. Valtiel's gloves had left a great many streaks in the background of her image, but she decided she had liked them, and so left them in place.

"... I don't get it. He came into my room and looked through my things. Now he seemed apologetic about damaging my picture." She rubbed one of her hands off on her apron, and then ran it through her hair. It was still dirty, and left some charcoal streaks behind.

"I should tell my psychiatrist. I'll bring the picture. We'll see what he says... Alessa was a basket case by the end, and could have used a psychiatrist. So maybe Valtiel will make a little more sense when viewed under a psychiatric lens."

She yawned, and then set to removing her apron. "Gotta sleep first, though..."


	4. Michael Kaufmann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to some of my followers who've been with me since this story, way back in the day!
> 
> Let me know if you know any good Silent Hill communities on Discord or other communities where I can tell them about this fic :)

"I had... I had a supernatural experience a few days ago."

The doctor blinked in surprise and then quickly leaned forwards, clasping his hands on his lap. "I'm listening," was all he said. Cheryl couldn't help but smile. It didn't matter whether he believed her stories or not; he spoke with her as if he did, and that was beyond comforting.

"One of the monsters from Silent Hill... found me in my home. I... I was laying in bed, thinking of therapy and art and so forth. I close my eyes and when I opened them, my night light had gone out. I... you know how scared I am of the dark... but I gathered up my courage and got up to switch the lights on. The power was out."

"I hadn't heard of any outages on the news. Was it a blown fuse?"

"I convinced myself that it was," Cheryl allowed, and he sat back to let her speak, understanding that his questionings were diverting her from the story. " I heard sounds, and they scared me. I went to get my flashlight and handgun from my nightstand. The pistol is comforting, and I don't expect to actually use it. I went back to my bed, and I realized my window was open. When I looked up, Metatron, from my previous Otherworld experience, was hanging on my wall. His head was convulsing back and forward violently, as usual, and he was suspended with his head down towards me."

She took in a slow breath. "I didn't feel frightened. I don't usually feel frightened around him. He just is, he isn't trying to hurt me. And he didn't try to hurt me this time, either. He looked at me, and then climbed over to my dresser and started rummaging through my things. I got up and... debated with him. He didn't like the light of my flashlight, and tried to get me to turn it off. I told him I wasn't going to turn it off because I was terrified of the dark, and to turn the power back on. The power came back on, and the lights turned on to about half their normal brightness."

Cheryl thought about the encounter for a moment, wondering if there was anything she wanted to add to better describe the story thus far.

"You're saying he was hanging on your wall?" The doctor asked. "How so?"

"Weightlessly... He wasn't holding into the wall, he didn't have any footholds or handholds... his limbs were just pressed against it."

"So he was floating?"

"No, it was much more like climbing, or hanging. Like a gecko, sort of."

He reached to the side and picked up the folder he'd associated with her case. Although he was usually opposed to keeping written notes concerning his patients (he felt it alienated them, and caused them to see him as a doctor and not as a confident), Cheryl Mason's stories were so intricate and so utterly complex that he had finally buckled and written them down, so he could keep better track of them. "If I remember correctly, you said that this was the only monstrous inhabitant of your 'Otherworld' experience who did not attempt to harm you."

"That's correct."

"You described him as man sized, taller and heavier than you, but slinking around on all fours like a cat or lizard. He had no face, just leather, with folds that looked like lips, and an actual mouth on the side of his head. Red latex gloves, with the fingers fused together, and the Seal of the Metatron on both his arms. Wore a dirty and bloodstained smock, and made noises like an animal. That all sounds right?"

"Yes. Precisely. Also, I forgot earlier, but he wars really heavy boots, like rain boots... galoshes."

The doctor nodded, making a note and then closing the file. "Alright. What happened, then?"

"He took my lipstick, and wrote a word on my mirror. He wrote the name 'Valtiel,' and indicated that it was his name."

"Valtiel... that sounds familiar."

"It's from the cultists' believes. The Sect of Valtiel was an order devoted to chastity, execution, punishment, and to Valtiel, the metatron, the being closest to 'God'."

"Yes... yes that all sounds fitting with the research I've done concerning the Order. So, he confirmed his identity as attendant to god... which confirmed your suspicions that he had saved your life in order to further the bearing of 'God'."

She nodded.

"Yet you don't fear him...? I would have been terrified in your shoes," he noted, sitting back in his chair. "This is one of the primary beings whose appearance might signal another forced birthing of the goddess..."

"You have no idea, sir. I was scared when he wrote that. He froze at my reaction, and then started scribbling out the name, as if bothered that he had upset me." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I don't know why he came to my house. I didn't fall into the otherworld while he was there. I felt... I felt like he was there on friendly terms. That he hadn't sought me out in order to further the goal of birthing the god. It was a strange feeling." She lifted her eyes to the doctor. "I felt over his face, examining him, and I wasn't afraid. And he just let me. And, after awhile, the lights flickered, and he vanished."

The doctor was quiet, digesting this information and watching her face. "I see," he said at last. "How long ago was this?"

"Two days. Yesterday, he came back. He found me in my art studio, and perused my paintings. It was late at night... But I suddenly was struck by a whim, and I got out my drawing tools, and I..." she trailed off, looking at the portfolio she had brought with her. The doctor's eyes widened in surprise, and he touched his chin thoughtfully.

"I'd been wondering what you'd brought," he said softly, curious and a little excited despite himself. "You have a drawing of him?"

She nodded. "I think so," she answered, and then slowly drew the portfolio up in front of her, and pulled the heavy canvass from the protective leather enclosure. The doctor recoiled as the monstrous image of Silent Hill was unveiled to him. He had seen a great many of Cheryl's works, and had long since grown used to the unsettling paintings in her time at Silent Hill... but usually those pieces were somewhat surreal. Cheryl couldn't remember the exact shapes of the creatures who had hounded her, and so the images were disconcerting and emotive, but not exactly realistic.

The picture of the metatron was so detailed that he could make out the veins beneath the monster's taut skin, and see hints of pores and small scares along his cheeks and jawline. He was not looking at a piece of concept art, he realized, but a portrait. A portrait of a being who might have been wholly hallucinatory, but, nevertheless, a portrait. Detailed down to the texture of the massive laces that held the creature's smock closed.

He took in Metatron's features with surprised eyes, and then slowly looked back to Cheryl's face. "And despite his appearance, you say that this creature typically sparks feelings of relief, or at least dispels feelings of imminent doom?"

"Yeah," she nodded, looking at the image. "He tried to ruin the image once or twice, but then eventually helped me repair it. I asked him why he'd mark up my drawing, and he touched my stomach. I got pissed. He seemed threatening for a very small moment, and then suddenly repentant. I don't know why. In Silent Hill, he was definitely watching over me, but the only reason for him to do so would be to protect the unborn God. And he usually never directly approached me. He was almost always beyond my actual reach. He only came near when I was dying, and then at the very end, after the goddess died."

The doctor was quiet a moment. "You have reason to believe that one of the reasons Silent Hill was filled with monsters was because both of Silent Hill's supernatural atmosphere, and because Alessa was psychic and her fears manifested as physical creatures."

"I'm not entirely sure why Silent Hill was filled with monsters, but I know Alessa's fears had some role to play in the shape of the monsters... The cultists fears, and my own, were also reflected in their shapes."

"Claudia believed that Alessa very close to god, yes? That the two were somehow interwoven. You said that the god's form resembled Alessa- at least in the face- and that Claudia had difficulty deciding where Alessa, you, and the god all began, and where each one ended."

Cheryl nodded, uncertain what this had to do with Valtiel.

"Cheryl, you are Alessa, aren't you?"

She stiffened. "No."

"Okay, but... you are her reincarnation?"

She shifted, and then nodded.

"Valtiel is an executioner, yes? Alessa likely wanted someone who would bring her tormentors to justice. Claudia saw Alessa as holy- saw you as holy. And you needed a raft to cling to. And according to cult legend, Valtiel was created by the goddess. Now, that brings up some questions, interesting questions."

"Questions?" Cheryl asked, confused but nevertheless feeling like the doctor was on to some revelation.

"Yes," he said, standing up and beginning to pace. Occasionally he'd glance back at her picture. "Questions like 'Why wasn't Valtiel present in Harry Mason's journal?'" Cheryl's brows furrowed. "Valtiel didn't try to help Harry or Dhalia, and it's never mentioned that Alessa had any contact with him. So if Valtiel is an extraplanar entity summoned to help with the birthing of god, why wasn't he present at the last botched attempt? Your father's journal also mentions that Alessa was using the symbol of the metatron to prevent the birth of the goddess, and preventing one's own god from entering the world doesn't seem like anything a good metatron would do. You yourself said that you were given a Talisman of the Metatron in an attempt to prevent the god's birth. Also, why did the god take the form of a giant goat when fighting Harry, but the form of Alessa when fighting you?"

Cheryl shook her head, not knowing the answer.

"Those monsters were created from the conflicting minds and goals of all the people in Silent Hill, as well as the rituals that had gone on there. The goat god was created from Dhalia, from your father, and from Alessa. The goddess you fought was created by what you'd read about the goat god, and by what Claudia poured into her."

He turned to look at her. "Valtiel wasn't present in Harry Mason's journal because Valtiel didn't exist yet, at least not in his current incarnation. Valtiel was created more recently... not just by Alessa, but by you and Claudia, and perhaps other unknown minds who were associated with Silent Hill." He kept pacing. "The cult made him the metatron, but Alessa stole the executioner in part for herself. This was shown in the violent role he played in Claudia's death, punishing her for what she had done to you. And you also, apparently, stole part of him. In your need for guidance, you created a guide. Mute, and with ulterior motives, but nevertheless capable of keeping you going. And, lastly, Claudia saw Alessa as akin to the goddess... meaning that Valtiel will view Alessa- and subsequently you- as the next best thing to his deity."

He paused in his rounds. "Now that Alessa is little more than a memory, Claudia is dead, and the cult is largely scattered, you are the only one who remembers Valtiel's existence. So it is possible that over the last nine years, you have been the sole contributor to his ego, and have imbued him with more hallmarks of a guide or companion. Perhaps now he's even come, in part, to represent your father."

Cheryl gaped at the doctor, and then slowly closed her mouth. She took in a long, slow breath. "Doctor," she muttered, and then sighed. "That didn't even sound remotely like psychobabble."

"I don't approve of psychobabble, you know that," he said with a gentle smile.

"You talk to me as if you believe me, but I'm... I'm talking crazy... At least from your point of view. Why do you... indulge me... when there's no way you could believe in what I'm saying?"

He blinked, a concerned look overcoming his face. After a moment, he shook his head. "You are not crazy, Cheryl Mason," he disagreed. "Torn, but not crazy."

"I'm telling you about magic cults and psychic manifestations, and you're... you're just a normal doctor. You have a PhD. You're not some crazy medium or whatnot. Why don't you drug me up like the rest of them? Why do you listen?" She took in a shuddering breath, and lifted a hand to cover her face.

"Cheryl!" he exclaimed, and then came up to her and gently touched her shoulders and hair. "Why are you talking like this?" he asked.

"Because I'm so thankful," she whimpered. "I'm so thankful, and I expect it to end... No one has ever just... just... listened before. They only hear, and then they pick what's wrong with me, and then they prescribe pills and... they don't want to know about what happened. They don't want to know about Valtiel or the goddess, they just want to know about my father, and whether or not someone ever touched me inappropriately and..."

She broke down crying. The doctor knelt and actually embraced her, letting her lean into him as she sobbed. He made gently hushing noises, and even rocked her slightly, although he had never had children of his own.

"I will always listen, Cheryl. Do you know why?"

She lifted her eyes to him and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, stifling hiccups.

"Because people don't need to be told what's wrong with them. Deep inside, they know what the problem is; the psychologist does not. Look at me. Look, Cheryl, shh... People just need someone to listen... and to open up their minds, so that they can find the problem themselves."

He gently touched her face, wiping away tears. "I will never stop listening to what you have to say. I will never act as if you are crazy. I will never tell you that what you've said cannot possibly be true. Never."

He made sure she wasn't about to start crying again, and then reached over and plucked a tissue from a nearby box, and brought it to her face.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "I want to know. I get if the psychologist has to believe me for therapy reasons. But does the man believe me?" She looked up at him. "What do you think? Personally?"

"I shouldn't tell you," he explained, "because whatever I say—whether I actually believe you or whether I don't—takes away from the fact that it doesn't matter what's true—it only matters what's going on up here." He tapped her temple. "Truth is only as powerful as the person who believes in it."

"Please," she begged.

He smiled. "I keep an open mind," is what he said. "It doesn't matter to me if boogiemen are haunting you, or if you are hallucinating boogiemen- as long as you stay brave enough to keep getting out of bed in the morning. If they are fake, I want you to personally overcome the hurdles necessary to stop seeing them. If they are real, I want to strengthen you to face them. If I tell you they're real and they're not, you could get yourself hurt. If I tell you they're not real, and they are, you also could get yourself hurt."

"Okay," she whispered, and then nodded slowly. "Okay. So... So everything you just said... why tell me that?"

"Because it gives you control over your situation. Either it gives you valuable information about Silent Hill, or it gives you a sense of empowerment so that you can banish your inner demons. Either way, I've done my duty.'

She nodded once more, starting to grow stronger again, and took in a long, slow breath.

"Are you going to be alright?" he asked her with genuine concern.

"I think so," she murmured, wiping her face and then easing back into her chair. Seeing that she had recovered, he stood up and slowly sat back in his own chair.

"Alright then. Is that enough for today, or do you want to keep talking?"

"Keep talking," she answered quickly. "Why... why do you think he came and found me after all this time? How do you think he found me?"

"I think you found him very interesting, and either your memories or your connection to Silent Hill have kept him... 'alive,' so to speak. The way you've described it, Silent Hill's Otherworld is something like a large, constantly changing organism. Valtiel's role has been played, so he should fade away and be replaced with something else. Something that more or less is composed of much of the same 'spirit', but which nevertheless serves a new purpose, and has new traits."

"Alessa became pregnant with the goddess before she ever unleashed a psychic hell upon Silent Hill. The god came from outside, from elsewhere. Shouldn't Valtiel have come from the same place?"

"The god might have come from the outside, but she was shaped by the same forces that shape all of Silent Hill's monsters. Valtiel, if he also is some sort of extraplanar being, is shaped by those same forces. Whatever energy allows these supernatural occurrences to keep happening, it not only facilitates their occurrence, but also binds them to its rules. Valtiel may contain the essence of some servant to some otherworldly god... but he definitely contains the traits that Silent Hill bestowed upon him."

"Do you think he has a will?" she questioned suddenly. "Nothing else in that place had a will. It served it's purpose- to torment, to strengthen, to beat down- and then it died or faded away- like you said. Even the goddess was just something that happened to me, like a trial. None of them had minds any more complex than those of an animal. They performed a function. They were emotional, but never on a sophisticated level. It's hard to say if even the goddess had a will, or if she was just as evanescent as everything else. But Valtiel... he seems to think. Yeah he performed many functions- turning valves, protecting me, protecting the goddess... but he also made mistakes... and near the end he interacted with me in a way that didn't seem mechanized."

"I don't know," he answered. "You recently had several major breakthroughs concerning the acceptance of your father's death. That experience was traumatic for you, and it may have spurred you to call on Valtiel. But I suppose it is possible that he may have simply grown restless, and sought you out of his own free will. Still... nine years is a long time to suddenly show up at a blind whimsy. It's more likely that he was called here by your need for guidance."

She nodded.

"Although," he added as an afterthought, "if you are the one who has been contributing to him, maybe you _gave_ him a will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the psychologist IS Kaufmann, from Shattered Memories. How? Why? The same Kaufmann Harry dealt with in the original, that jerk? These are the questions humans write fan-fictions to solve.


	5. Spaghetti & Meatballs

Heather was not exactly looking forward to sleep. Her Boogieman had appeared twice in just as many days, and odds were he would reappear again that evening. She wasn't precisely sure how to feel about that. She wasn't certain if she was ever going to be able to get to sleep again.

Talking with Dr. Kaufmann, her psychologist, always put her in a more restful and contemplative mood. He was a smart man, and his distance from her horrors coupled with his willingness to believer her (or at least act like he believed her) helped her frame her experiences through a different lens. She felt that, while she might never truly understand Silent Hill, she was at least building a better model for coping with her supernatural experiences.

So Cheryl felt good inside. She felt she understood much more than she had only three days before. She felt stronger, surer, braver, healthier, saner. The feeling was good, and she was disinclined to remove the picture of Valtiel from her leather portfolio, because she didn't want to look at it again.

There was a huge world of difference in between feeling knowledgeable about Silent Hill, and being woken up in the wee hours of the night by a monstrous creature in a stained butcher's smock, crawling on her ceiling, twitching violently, and growling.

Cheryl was actually sort of dreading it. She just knew it was going to ruin her mood.

Why? As much as talking with Kaufmann always calmed her, it tended to raise other questions. Did Valtiel represent her father? She'd considered that possibility once, then discarded it. Try as she might, she couldn't force a mental image of her father into Valtiel's shape. The two felt irreconcilable. But what if Valtiel did represent Harry Mason?

That would mean <strike>Heather </strike>Cheryl was getting crazier, not better. The thought was disheartening.

"Stop that," she growled testily to herself as she poured a box of spaghetti noodles into a boiling pot of water. She was going to have spaghetti with meatballs tonight. Just the way dad used to cook them. The meatballs were sizzling away nearby.

Isn't talking to yourself crazy? "Stop that!" Heather protested aloud. "When you left Silent Hill, you promised yourself you wouldn't question your own sanity. Remember, all you have to your name are your eyes, your ears, your sense of touch, your sense of smell... It doesn't matter how crazy it all sounds. You have to believe in it, believe in yourself. No matter what anyone says, you can't let them convince you that you're crazy."

She closed her eyes and took a long deep breath. "Out of everyone who's ever been to Silent Hill, you're the only one who was carrying a real inner demon, instead of just a psychological one. You're not crazy. Silent Hill didn't draw you in to punish you for being crazy. Or it would have let you know so." She looked down at the cooking noodles.

She grimaced. "But... but am I crazy now? After the fact?" another part of her wondered. "I was trying to bring back my dad. I nearly did bring him back. I still can't tell if I was hallucinating, or if he was really up and walking about. Maybe it was simultaneously both."

Cheryl rubbed her hands helplessly on her apron. She was quiet a long, long moment. "I just can't think that way," she said at last. "I can't doubt myself. I knew something was wrong with me when I was manifesting Dad. I went to Dr. Kauffman, didn't I? I knew I was doing something unhealthy, reliving his past in an effort to bring him back. I just..."

She stirred the noodles. "I just have to trust my mind. Or I'll drive myself crazy. There's no one who can help me, no one I can trust, nothing to ground or stabilize me; my own brain is all I've got. Silent Hill is like a forge; it remakes people or it destroys them. The only thing you have on hand to experience Silent Hill are your senses; the only thing that you can count on are your moral principals. It gives you nothing else. You have to accept it, and what it does, and try to understand where it's going, because there's no other way."

She pulled her spoon out. "If you're insane, then saving yourself is out of your hands. Silent Hill's only given you the tools for fighting demons. There's absolutely nothing you can do to wake up from this dream. If you're crazy, it's someone else's responsibility to deal with you. And you're so far gone that there's nothing you can do, nothing you should do to help them. If they were in your shoes, they certainly wouldn't begrudge you a survival instinct."

The food was done. Cheryl turned off the burners and piled a plate high with spaghetti and meatballs. "It'll all come out in the wash. Don't kill yourself with anxie-"

The main kitchen light flickered dark as turned around. A familiar monster was hanging upside down from the light fixture, twitching violently. Heather—no,Cheryl!—took in a sharp breath. He was fairly brightly silhouetted by the bright hallway light and illuminated decently by the under-the-counter lighting of the kitchen. Her eyes flit over him up and down, and then she realized he was holding a small canvass in hand.

Cheryl blinked at it over her plate of noodles. She realized it was the portrait she'd painted of Dr. Kaufmann. Her eyes flit back up him. His fingers were grasped tightly on the canvas, pulling and stretching the cloth. His arm muscles were taut, and his twitching was more agitated than usual.

Something was wrong; Valtiel was angry. Why? About Kaufmann? Did he not like the man? Had he somehow followed Heather to her therapy? Was he mad she'd shown Kaufmann her painting of Metatron? Had something else happened? Was Kaufmann alright? Her poor painting, Valtiel was ruining it-!

A cat-like roar exploded from the metatron. He seized the painting with both hands and viciously tore it in two, then in four, then in eight. His fingers cracked and splintered the wooden frame into toothpicks, and caused paint to explode from the surface. Cheryl stared at him. Seconds after he'd began, the remaining fragments were too small to splinter any further; but this only halted him for a moment. Then the painting's component parts crumbled away into ash, rust, and gobs of tar, pouring over her kitchen counters and floor tiles.

Cheryl looked down over her meatballs at the floor, and then back up at the seething metatron. His whole body was twitching violently, his fingers grasping at the air, snarls flowing.

"Are you quite done?" she asked him calmly, nothing but irritation in her voice. He didn't look at her, seething at the goo on the floor. "Valtiel!" she shouted.

The twitching almost stopped entirely. He froze, face cocked towards her, and only the tiniest quiver here and there were left to evidence his spastic nature.

"That little painting took me three days of hard labor, working long hours into the night," she told him in a level tone. "It was of a man who's been like an uncle to me, someone who cares about me and doesn't just drug me up with anti-depressants and other chemicals to try and make me normal; a man who has helped me through some extremely dark parts of my life. The only human being anywhere who I can talk to about my experiences, without fear, without shame."

Metatron shifted, one hand moving to grip the light fixture again. His sounds were now soft but poignant clicks and snorts. He continued to 'stare' at her.

"If you've hurt him," Cheryl—(Heather?)—told him, her voice quavering once but nevertheless still filled with determination, "well let's just say you and I won't be friends no more."

Valtiel snorted, gurgled, twitched violently, and then made a plaintive noise. After a moment, he reached down hesitantly, gloved fingertips reaching for her hair and face. Heather ducked away from his touch and threw him a vile glare.

"You take anyone away from me," she warned him, "and you become nothing more than just another fucking monster. Just like Claudia."

The grasping hand froze, the head twitched and contorted wildly. As Heather's words sunk in, the metatron slowly eased backwards, off of the light, snarling, bleating, his sounds oddly contradictory to one another. He shrieked. He hissed. His fingers dug into the ceiling plaster.

She shook her head in disbelief, staring up at this creature that should have been soulless, should have been a valve, a hallucination, a cog, a nightmare, a machine, a demon, and saw conflict. Anger. Pain. Not her own emotions reflected back to her, but emotions she could not understand or even recognize.

"Valtiel?" she called softly. The wildly twitching head flinched in her direction, but did not stop quivering. Her brow creased in confusion. "Are you real?" she asked, as much to him as to herself.

His arms, arms like steel cords, shook. The fingers clenched. She stepped towards him, brow still furrowed, and lifted a hand hesitantly as if to touch him. Before she could, he gave a tiger-like scream and the lights went dark. When they came on again, there was no sign he had ever been there; even the gooey remains of her portrait were gone.

Heather stood there a moment, cooling pasta in one hand, the other hand raised towards a vanished monster. Her raised fingers curled into a fist and then pulled backwards. After a moment, she sat down at her table, pushed her spaghetti aside, and dropped her face into her hands.

A lot of cold and uneaten food, three hours, and at least one full anxiety attack later, and Heather Mason was certain of only one thing concerning this whole matter: She desperately wished she had eaten her spaghetti when it was warm. She looked across the counter at where her meatballs needed to be microwaved, and sighed.

That wasn't entirely true.

Heather had also just realized something slightly vague and disconcerting: She had felt braver with Valtiel present than she did now with him gone. Maybe she should have just ignored the picture and given him some of her spaghetti. Then not only would he not have left, but she would have gotten to eat her dinner warm.

Heather stared at her meatballs, and then looked up to the corner of her ceiling. She needed to figure out what was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heather: Conveniently not remembering Kaufmann was supposed to be a bad guy.  
Valtiel: CLEARLY REMEMBERS.  
Shattered Memories: Apparently is a thing.  
Miscommunication: Also happens.  
Excellent Meal: Gets cold :(


	6. Cuddle

Valtiel did not return. Days passed. Cheryl went to her therapy appointments as scheduled, and found her doctor to be in good health, and unharmed. The portrait she'd drawn of him had been moved from its location in her studio, but was found to be completely intact. Heather hardly felt that this was a sign that she'd been hallucinating; Silent Hill was not picky about temporal continuity.

Valtiel's absence made her nervous; more nervous than his three visits had. She didn't understand, and she somehow felt that it was very important that she understood. Silent Hill often gave her that sense. She'd learned to try and let go, to just go with the flow but- well, without Valtiel present, nothing was really _flowing_. She found herself unhappy and hoping she hadn't driven him off for good.

Why? She couldn't articulate her reasoning, even to Kauffman. But she was certain now more than ever that Valtiel had never meant her harm, that he had come for a benevolent or at least benign purposes. Her psychologist reminded her that this was a monstrous, faceless, filthy monster who clung to her ceiling and roared like a cat. He was prompting, as gently as he could, for her to examine her own feelings.

Cheryl was surprised by the prompting. She thought long and hard about it. She glanced at the portrait she'd drawn of the monster, thinking. After a long moment, she looked back up at her doctor. She hesitated, but for once she didn't feel ill or paranoid. "I think he can help me," she said at last. "Although I don't know how."

This was strange, new. He asked her a great many more questions, about her father, about Silent Hill, but no answers were found down that light of questioning. "Are you afraid?" Kauffman asked at last, puzzled by this change.

She looked at the portrait. "Yeah," she said. "Of everything."

* * *

Heather woke up in a panicked sweat, gasping for breath and choking on tears. Images from her her nightmares- images from her memory- were still flashing behind her eyes. She quivered violently and sobbed, biting down hard on one of her hands to still her cries.

_It's okay. Breathe deep. It was just a nightmare. It wasn't the real thing. The real thing is over and done with, and if you're really lucky it will stay that way. Remember the things your doctor told you. It's okay. Breathe deep. It was just a nightmare. It wasn't the real thing..._

A soft growl sounded near her ear, and Heather's entire body went stiff. No sound followed the growl. Tears flooded down her face, and after a time she began to shake and shivver again. She remembered Claudia's flattened clothing, with black splattered out where all her appendages had been. She remembered the grotesque closers looming over her, and Vincent's death, and countless shapes and horrors and smears of blood and surgical equipment, and broken nails and bits of flesh and...

Fused-fingered hands slowly touched her and she flinched, jerking away from them and crying out as if in pain. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She ripped her blankets from the edges of her bed and yanked them around her, sobbing.

_Don't touch me. Oh god. God god god god god!_

For a long time, all was silent, and she hoped that the monster in her room had left. But soon soft gurgles and growls and purrs began to hover around her head, and she received the strangest impression that the metatron was fussing over her and trying to figure out what he should do. Hands touched the sides of her blanket, feeling over her back.

Heather began to cry. The fingers quested uncertainly over her side and then linked carefully around her middle, pulling the blanket further around her. Warm arms cupped the sides of her waist and back. Judging by how he was touching her, she gathered that he'd climbed down onto the bed, and was no longer hanging from his perch on the wall.

The arms continued to embrace her. Soft muscle spasms were detectable along his arms, but for the most part he was fairly still, and quiet save for the growls buzzing about her ears. She held very still, feeling somewhat protected by the shielding wall of her blankets. Her breathing began to calm. Her position had her resting heavily on one of his arms, and after a moment she realized she could feel a pulse against where it was holding her.

The notion that Valtiel had a heartbeat was strange.

Heather sighed weakly and then opened her eyes. After a long moment, she worked up the courage to poke her head out from her blankets, and look around.

Valtiel was crouched beside her, head twitching more urgently than usual. He was very close to her, but not close enough that his chest was resting against her blankets. She sighed again, her eyes dropping to his boots and filthy smock, before lifting back to his face.

"You got Otherworld grime all over my blankets," she complained unhappily.

_Great. Now I'm sleeping in the coagulated blood of nurses and bits of rust and... and... and..._

Valtiel twitched violently to suggest a cant of the head, but his normal spasming obfuscated the more dramatic motion. He shifted slightly, but did not remove himself from the bed. She sighed again, and closed her eyes, turning her face back into her mattress. "Well then maybe you should help me do the laundry in the morning," she murmured, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. A mutilated hand hesitated, tensing around her waist before carefully lifting to her face and brushing away tears. Heather shuddered.

"I'm never going to get better," she whimpered after a moment, confiding to this creature in a way she couldn't to anyone else; not even to her psychologist. The pain and uncertainty and vulnerability had built up so high... She was wallowing in it. She choked hard.

"I-I'm never going to be able to sleep without nightmares. I...I'm never going to forget what happened to me. I'll never see my father again, unless it's in my own delusions. For the rest of my life I will be fighting against the temptation of my own insanity. For what? I don't know. It's important to keep going, but I'm never going to get b-better..."

She sobbed and swallowed past phlegm and emotion.

"I just... I want it to not have happened... I wish it hadn't happened... I'm so alone most days, and I don't... _work_ right anymore, and I don't know how to be happy... sometimes I'm a little happy- when I'm painting- but most of the time I'm just miserable. I'm strong, so I carry on, but I... I don't know how to get over it... I don't know if I can ever have normal emotions again, and normal fears, and be _okay_... I want to be strong, and fight it, and get over it, and let everything be normal, and earn what I had back... But I can't... I can't, and I don't think I'm ever going to get better... or if I do, it will only be a very small bit, and it wont really matter."

The red latex glove continued to dab tears from her face. It wasn't very absorbent, and it smeared Otherworld dirt (and likely blood) on her face. After a time, she felt a warmth and weight against her side and back, and gathered that Valtiel had laid down beside her. Arms tightened about her midsection. A heartbeat- distant because of her buffering comforters- rumbled somewhere beside her.

Heather shuddered. She made sure her arms were shielded by the blanket before draping them slowly over his own. She pressed her fingers over the material, into his forearms.

"Keep me safe," she begged him, appealing to the one and only _thing_ that might be able to shield her from the darkness. "_Please_."

A firm growl answered her, and arms tightened around her. She shuddered and closed her eyes tightly. A soft heartbeat thrummed steadily beside her ear.

Taut muscles slowly relaxed. Her eyes did not press together so tightly and her pained expression softened. Her head tilted slightly, leaned into the heartbeat, the warmth, the world's only remaining source of life and comfort. She was asleep long before a wiry tongue reached down between the folds of the blankets, and began licking the tears gently from her cheeks.

* * *

Heather woke up slowly, stirring to consciousness over the period of a few minutes. It was a peaceful awakening, the sort of which she had not enjoyed for a long time. It took a moment for her to remember, and for her to realize that she had slept both heavily and soundlessly. When it dawned on her what had happened, she sat up quickly, and looked around. The metatron was gone, but her blankets were somewhat dirty, and there was a warm depression where he had been. She touched that spot tentatively, feeling the residual warmth of life.

She was quiet... and in awe... for a long time. Then she took in a long, slow breath, and looked around. "Thank you," she called quietly to the air.

Heather wasn't certain what to do. Call up her psychologist? Perhaps, but she didn't feel the need to confide in anyone. She felt... calm. Blissful. Excited, but not exactly the sort of excited that one wanted to share or talk about. Truth be told, this was probably what her psychologist would consider a 'breakthrough.' But, personally, it was like Christmas had come three days in a row, and on top of she'd won the lottery. The stress was gone. The uncertainty was gone. It was replaced by a giddy feeling, and she wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

Paint. She wanted to paint.

But first, food.

Breakfast was quick, eggs and a pop-tart, and then she was rushing to her gallery. She fumbled with the keys to her car, and pushed the car up five miles over the speed limit on her way. She barely had the patience to set her paints and crayons out before she was spreading pigment all over a brand new canvas.

Something happy. She wanted to paint something happy. Something that wasn't nostalgic or morose or 'about happier times.' Something that was _currently_ happy.

So she painted an enormous sunflower, painstakingly smearing paint for ever last crease of each petal, laying down a base coat as an under painting, and then several more layers on top of it, building it up.

She accidentally got some cyan and magenta paint on the canvas while she was working, and then worked them into an elegant humming bird, chest overflowing with feathers. Eventually there was simply too much wet paint on the canvas for her to continue as she wished, so she set it aside to dry. She pulled out another canvas. She had never felt so inspired. She had to have set down the first few layers of paint for at least ten smaller canvasses before her stomach started growling loudly, and she realized that she had completely missed lunch and it was now time for dinner.

Food. Good food, that's what she wanted. There was a nice looking Hungarian restaurant down the street that she'd always found curious, but had never entered. Sometimes, on hot nights, the scent of rich foods floated down to her gallery and made her mouth water. She wanted to go there, and eat something ethnic, and so she did. She had roast lamb. It felt like she was celebrating something, and perhaps, in fact, she was. No nightmares. A few hours with no nightmares.

When she drove home it was past nightfall, but she barely noticed. She didn't care. She parked in her little garage and hurried into the house, not wondering if a Closer would reach out from under her car and grab one of her legs. She stepped into the house.

A strange man was in her parlor, looking over her pictures.


	7. Alex Shepherd

A strange man was in her parlor, looking over her pictures.

There was no transitory period between her high of happy bliss and a feeling of pure and unadulterated terror. One moment she was standing there, happy with her paintings. The next she'd dropped her knapsack on the ground beside her and bolted for one of her living room end tables.

The strange man barely had time to register her presence and turn around before she'd pulled out a pistol and leveled it straight at his head.

"Who the fuck are you!" she shrieked.

"Don't shoot!" he cried in alarm, backing up from her and lifting her hands. "Please- I mean you no harm, don't shoot!" Heather had adrenaline on the brain. She rapidly took stock of his appearance. Mid to late twenties; his dark brown hair was already streaked with premature gray. He seemed worn, and very uneasey.

Heather stood up from her end table and stalked straight towards the man, her gun never wavering. She saw that he, too, had a holster on his hip, and a pistol much like her own. "Make one move for your weapon and I'll blow your brains out!" she shouted. "_Who are you_!"

"My name is Alex Shepard. I'm part of the Special Forces. Please, Miss, just put the weapon down- I'm not here to hurt you."

That sort of answer did not make Heather Mason happy. "You're in my house! You broke into my house!"

"I had to make sure you weren't a cultist," he answered quietly.

Heather stiffened.

"Please," he implored in a level voice. "Put the gun down."

She was quiet a moment, holding the gun steadily. Then she snorted. "Hold your arms out to the side. I want your gun, and I want to make sure you aren't going to try and grab or strike at me while I take it."

He considered the request for a moment before lifting his arms to do as he was told. Heather looked up him up and down before stepping forward and quickly snatching his pistol. She glanced at it momentarily before backing up a safe distance from him, and slowly lowering both weapons.

"Talk," she growled. "And make it good."

"As I said, my name is Alex Shepard. I've heard _of_ you, but I know very little. I needed to make sure you weren't with them before I tried to talking to you."

Hmm. Her shoulders relaxed a little.

"All I knew was that you and your adoptive father, Harry Mason, had filed vague police reports that... " he grimaced. "Look, I am not with the cult. I'm just looking for answers. That's all."

Heather frowned. "Answers?" she asked slowly. "To what questions?"

He hesitated.

She sneered. "Look, I don't care who you think you're going to offend, I want the truth. The whole truth, _right now_, or I am calling the police on you and you can explain what you're doing in my house!"

"It's not easy to put into words," he muttered.

"_You_ found_ me_," she shouted. "You bridge the gap, you break the ice, and you tell me what you are DOING here!"

He grimaced. "Did anything... strange... happen while you were in Silent Hill?" he asked softly.

She shifted. "Strange?" she asked. "What kind of strange are we talking?"

"Can't be explained, strange," he managed. "Defies sense and reasoning. _That_ kind of strange.'

Heather was uncomfortable now, and she hesitated. "Yes," was what she answered.

"Did you have to escape it?" he asked carefully.

Her eyes widened and she tilted her head to the side. Her fingers loosening around the handles of their pistols. "You've..." she hesitated, then pushed forward: "You've been there. The_ Otherworld_."

He took in a deep breath and nodded, slowly lowering his arms. A social mask, a semblence of normality, washed away from his face. The man beneathe it looked haunted, desperated, starved for any form of sanity.

Heather stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded in understanding. "I have some answers," she told him, "but only a few." She looked down at the guns in her hand and then walked back up to him and lifted his pistol up towards him by the barrel, offering for him to take it back.

The haunted man looked at her for a moment. "Keep it for now." he told her. "You'll feel better about me sneaking in to your house... and you don't seem like the type to shoot an innocent man."

"I'm hardier than I look," she answered. "I survived the same hell you did."

He considered that. Then, a little energy seemed to seep back into him. "Fair enough," he responded, and took the pistol to holster it.


	8. Identity Crisis

Valtiel didn't show that evening, but Heather- ugh, no, stop.

Why was it getting so difficult to keep her name straight? The problem was relatively new, to be certain. Since the day she'd stepped out from Silent Hill, Cheryl had been calling herself by her given name: Cheryl Mason. It was the name her father had given her. So why had she suddenly gone back to thinking of herself as 'Heather'? Why was she always so surprised to see black hair when she looked in the mirror in the morning?

Heather paused, staring at herself in the mirror that morning as she fussed with her hair. She had an itch to go out and buy blonde hair dye. She wanted highlights. Then she realized her inner voice was using the name 'Heather,' and she gave a heavy sigh.

"People usually don't think of themselves in the third person," she decided. "They don't use their own names while thinking. Unless they have a talkative inner coach. And I have a talkative inner coach because I'm recovering from trauma." She pursed her lips. "So why is my coach using the wrong name, exactly?"

She plucked at her hair. She didn't really like it black. It was sort of lifeless. She and Alex Shepard were meeting up for lunch. They wanted to talk out in the open, in the daylight, in public. Not in a dark house late at night. They had shared contact information but little else the evening before. Then he'd left the house like a haunted man. She fervently hoped nothing had happened to him overnight- Silent Hill was prone to just that kind of dick move.

She wanted it blonde again. Badly. And she didn't know why.

Was Cheryl really her name?

She was struck by the question, so much so that she jumped slightly. It was the name on her adoption record, wasn't it? _Wasn't_ it? Her brow furrowed in uncertainty, trying to remember something. She glanced out of her bathroom into the master bedroom, and at a nightstand in which she kept her father's old journal.

The baby Harry had originally found at the side of the road. _That_ child, he had named Cheryl. But that had been part of Alessa, carved off from her and projected out into the world. _She_ was something like Cheryl II: The combination of Cheryl I and Alessa, reincarnated. She had none of the original daughter's memories. Those years of life had gone missing.

Heather grimaced at the nightstand, her heart sinking in uncertain and unexplained fear. She suddenly had the urge to run, but she didn't know to where, or why. She wanted to curl up in her blankets and never leave.

She made a sound of panic, stress, and dismay, covered her face, curled up on herself slightly, and shut her eyes. She took long breathes, sighing out at the end of each one. She listened to the sound of those sighs. At first, they were like panicked gasps. Then, slowly, they became calmer, more controlled, more relaxed. Her palms were damp when she pulled them away from her face and stood straight once more.

She looked back at the mirror. "HEATHER," was written on it in bright red lipstick.

There was a long moment in which Miss Mason neither acknowledged nor denied the writing on the mirror. She stared at it without expression, without fear, without anger, without any emotion at all. The appraised its letters, and then stared at her reflection between the splattered red lines.

The face that looked back at her was almost Alessa's. She wanted her hair blonde. Layered. Slightly curled. That had been her thing, her style, her _look_. Back then, she'd been hiding. When she decided not to hide anymore, she went natural. To show what she was, what she had been, and that she wasn't afraid or denying it.

The more Miss Mason looked at her face, the more she was certain she wasn't in denial. She was Alessa's reincarnation. She was Cheryl II. But because she _wanted_ her own look. And she wanted her own name. Something different on the canvas.

Canvas?

Heather's eyes flew open wide. After a moment of trepidation, she dropped her comb and sprinted off through the house. Bedroom? Hallway!? Atrium? Kitchen! Living Room!

Every room had her paintings, and every painting was signed, "Heather Mason."

She stood in her family room like a deer caught in headlights, staring at her largest and most pleasant work, a work of flowers. She studied it with wide eyes, looking for any hints of anger or death or violence, but could find none. She'd done this many times, but this time _it was vital she find none_. There weren't any. She looked at the signature, 'Heather,' and then up at the vibrant strokes of paint.

She was seized by the terrifying urge to grab every painting in her house and burn it. She was seized by the overwhelmingly terrifying question: "Am I insane?"

And at precisely that moment, a coo sounded from behind her. There was a heavy thud as something dropped from the ceiling onto the floor, and then long arms were wrapping about her, pulling her back against a warm and dirty smock. A leathery head twitched and shuddered just above her own, stirring her hair.

_What!? Why?! Why are you here!? Why are you holding me!? This is insane! I'm insane!_

The world was cracking. Bursting at the seams. Breaking up. She needed to run, or breathe, or hide, or do _something_ because she was falling apart. The was an overwhelming pull for action, for decision, a cry for her to save herself by any means necessary, even if she had to drive out and see her psychiatrist this very second and demand to know why he had never mentioned her signatures. And she needed to do it _now_, because she was stronger than her own imbalance, and she could not let it take her down.

Then he-or it- began to nuzzle her hair. Shakily, spasmodically, but most definitely nuzzling. He rubbed the entire surface of his face over her hair, the cheek or the forehead mostly, like a cat with no fine motor control but oodles of affection to give. Heather swallowed hard, staring at her painting in shock, bewilderment, in disbelief. Her nocturnal, faceless, possibly undead, possibly demonic, possibly angelic monster continued to dote. In the one shadowed corner of an otherwise brightly lit house, an hour shy of noon.

Heather Mason swallowed hard. She lifted a hand and touched one of the arms that was holding her. It felt real enough. The split skin was moist. There was a pulse, and a warmth. She shook her head, not understanding. Was she crazy? Why was she calming down? Then a funny sensation came over her. She was _calming_. She hadn't gone anywhere or done anything or fought any fights. And yet despite the fact that a boogieman was smearing coagulated blood into her hair, somehow she was _stabilizing_. She was doing the exact opposite of a downward spiral. If she really was an undiagnosed schizophrenic, then her hallucination was actively attempting to assuage her.

What?

Heather closed her eyes and took long, steadying breaths. Her monster gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Pressed against his chest, she could feel his heartbeat, and his own breaths. They were both steady, almost hypnotic. But when she opened her eyes again, the metatron was suddenly gone. She looked around, unsurprised by the sudden lack of sensation. A glance at her arms showed that he'd left behind some dirt and grime, though. She pressed her lips together and lifted her brows. Great. Back to the shower.

She glanced at the mirror over her mantelpiece, next to a picture of her late father.

Fine, then. Heather. Blonde. Ceiling-Climbing-Boogiemen. Whatever. If it worked, it worked. But for Christ's sake she needed to do the laundry this evening. She'd run out of clean blankets.


	9. Eating Lunch & Doing Laundry

"So let me get this straight," Alex said, pulling his chair closer to the table and stabbing up some salad with a fork. He brought it to his mouth, gobbled up a hungry bite, and swallowed before continuing. "You live _here_, just one town over from Silent Hill. And your shrink lives in the old Silent Hill lighthouse. And every week you make the drive to go and see him."

Heather got the impression he'd been on the run, whether from cultists or simply from his own fears. He seemed a little malnourished. But eating alongside her seemed to bolster him a little. He was talking. He was using normal speech conventions. His face wasn't tight or pinched in nervous apprehension. She realized that she was currently _his_ psychological anchor, as she had once temporarily been James's, and later Henry's. It was always an odd sensation. But somehow it never failed to bolster her up into something a lot more stable than her usual norm.

She remember his question, and nodded.

"_Why_? Why would you do that to yourself? Especially knowing what that village is capable of!" He looked around as if worried Silent Hill might overhear him.

"Whatever supernatural anomaly resides in Silent Hill, it's not confined to the town. It can reach out and find us anywhere," she said, and was surprised at how conversational and even her voice sounded. It was strange, but talking about this with someone else who had been through a similar experience made it seem almost mundane.

"It seems like you're tempting fate," he said. "Aside from which, why would you want to travel- weekly- to a town where- where that _happened_ to you!? I- I still just... Just... It's haunting my every sleeping moment... and most of my waking ones."

"When I left Silent Hill, I told myself I wasn't going to hide anymore," she answered. "I changed my name back to 'Cheryl,' let my hair return to it's natural black color, and didn't bother moving far away."

"The cult is still there. You have to know your every movement is being watched!"

Heather grunted. "_I'm_ keeping an eye on _them_," she corrected. "The cult wavers between the real world and the _fog_, but I can still keep tabs on many of their activities."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"I watch them. They watch me. We circle each other, but don't exchange blows. Only extremest members of one sect of the cult ever felt I should be forced to bring their god into the world, so the other sects are mostly content to leave me be. I have a status somewhere between that of a saint and a demon with them; they're loathed to interact with me, even to just kill me off."

He looked at her puzzled, thinking this over. His forehead wrinkled when he was puzzled.

"Also, we're talking about a cult that's trying to bring an evil god into the world by means of murder and torture. I want to know what they're up to, in case there's anything I can do to stop them. I can't keep tabs on everything, and certain cases slip through my fingers... but I've managed to put a clandestine end to several of their endeavors. And sent clues and what help I can to stop others. And I'm getting better at it."

He lifted his brows, not having considered this angle, and made a soft 'hmm' noise. The idea that Silent Hill's madness was... traceable .. manageable .. it added some stability to his mood.

Heather smiled and blew on a spoonful of her soup before engulfing it. "I also keep an eye on any missing-persons reports that might be connected to the town. Douglass helps me. That's how I met James Sunderland. His wife was Mary Shepard-Sunderland. So I know quite a bit about your family."

He paused, thinking, looking at the tablecloth. Then he lifted his eyes back to her. "Did you know my name, then? Before I found you."

She shook her head. "No. You must have come to the city a little too furtively. Either that, or Silent Hill covered up your tracks. You didn't show up in any of my usual sources. And I have managed to track some pretty distant cases. Do you remember Walter Sullivan in the news?"

"That was cult activity? That was before..."

She nodded. He was very quiet, staring at his plate. Heather regarded him curiously, wondering what was going through his head. She'd met cultists trying to break away from the religion before. Vincent came to mind. None of them had been particularly good news. But something about Alex was different.

"Look," he said quietly. "You made a jab at my name. My family. You don't trust much. I get that. But I wasn't part of it." He lifted his eyes to her. "I wasn't even exposed to much of it, till... Till my brother died. It's new to me. I always knew we were... well... that... that things were a little odd compared to what you saw on TV back home. But I spent most of my life outside Silent Hill as a.." He winced, trying to sort through his confused and muddled memories. "Well, one way or another."

Heather shifted in her seat, studying him. "One way or another?" she asked softly, but needed no elaboration. "You're like James," she decided. "Silent Hill called you in because you repressed memories."

He looked up at her. "Called me?" he asked weakly. She nodded.

"There are two primary kinds of people who find the otherworld. The first are those who get mixed up in the cult's supernatural god-summoning business. Okay, that one makes sense. But the second group requires you to know some Silent Hill cult history. These people are called in because the otherworld is obsessed with Justice, and it takes it upon itself to exact that justice, in a very, very twisted way.

The man frowned at her. His expression tensed a bit, and some confidence, some disapproval, leaked into his voice. He asked in a level tone: "Justice?" And there was no doubt in her mind that she was definitely talking to ex-military. Possibly ex-police.

Heather leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She regarded Alex Shepard for a very long time, studying his face. He had warm eyes, despite the wrinkles marring the corners of his eyes and the gray dusting in his hair. There was a strange mixed strength and vulnerability about him; the sort you'd expect to see in a man who would leap to defend innocents from an oncoming gunman, but deep down desperately craved some form of validation. They were not the eyes of a cultist or a madman.

She looked long and hard. She looked for the bipolar anger, the vicious madness, that could drive a person like this to snap, to develop two personalities, to shoot everyone present in a crowded movie theater. But she couldn't find it. She wasn't surprised. Silent Hill wouldn't have let him go otherwise.

"You're wrong about one thing; I do trust you," she told him.

His voice was still gravely serious. He did _not_ like that usage of the word justice. "Why?"

"Because it takes a lot to impress Alessa Gillespie." She leaned forward again. "I'm going to tell you everything you need to know. Everything I understand. All the history I know. All the incidents I know. Everything I've deduced about the monsters, or that my psychologist has suggested to explain them. Everything about your family. Everything about the cultists. And I want you to be equally frank with me. And when we're done, you'll know more about what happened to you; and I'll know more about _it_. And maybe with that kind of closure, you'll be able to figure out which way to turn next."

Alex Shepard looked into her face, and the grim line of his mouth faded into a trusting expression. He nodded. "Okay."

* * *

Considering Valtiel's reaction to her psychologist, Heather was worried the metatron might have reacted poorly to Mr. Shepard. She was a little surprised when her fears proved unfounded. Valtiel showed no indication that he knew or cared about her fellow Otherworld survivor. Perhaps the transdimensional angelic boogieman had learned his lesson about threatening people in front of Healther; Or maybe he found Alex non-threatening. Whatever worked.

She spent the next few hours doing chores, brooming up her house, washing her bathrooms, dusting the mantelpieces, and so forth. When the floors and furniture had gotten their share of cleaning she turned her mind to laundry. After a moment she decided to wear one of her painting aprons, galoshes, and some rubber gloves for the procedure.

This was a wise decision.

Heather grimaced at the red-colored ick coming out of her washing machine. If she hadn't seen how Valtiel's was mucking her blankets up, she would have imagined she'd dropped into the otherworld, and now all of her faucets were going to run red with blood. After a moment, she leaned over the washing machine and poured in a cup load of bleach. Her white sheets and comforter would be fine. She'd already thrown away a blue blanket. It would have never come clean.

_Ugh. And I was sleeping in that,_ she grumbled, glad that her comforters and sheets were finally getting a proper wash. She wondered briefly what would happen if she DNA tested the blood. Whose blood was it? Or had Silent Hill birthed Valtiel with the blood and grime already affixed to him, like makeup on an actor?

A gentle growl told her that the monstrous being was near, so she looked up and gave him a sort of glare. "You are _filthy_," she told him disapprovingly. Hanging from her ceiling, Valtiel gave her what she imagined was a faceless, upside-down, bewildered look. He made an inquisitive noise. "Look what you've tracked all over my blankets," she said, with a demonstrative flick of the wrist towards her stationary tub.

Valtiel clearly saw no problem with bloody, mucky water. He mumbled at her in deferential confusion, asking for an elucidation. Inwardly, Heather wondered if she'd elected to do her laundry last entirely in the hopes that Valtiel would show up for a lecturing. She was feeling strangely comfortable about him, as if he were now a fixed aspect of her upside-down life. Maybe she was still giddy from the day before. She ought not to underestimate the healing power of a good sleep. Heather had tried countless remedies to sooth her nightmares. She'd tried herbs, drugs, medications, and so forth. Nothing had worked. As far as Heather now knew, Boogieman snugglings appeared to be the only thing that could help her sleep without nightmares. Maybe that was enough to earn Valtiel a free residence permit.

"Blood, dirt, rust- you've gotten it all over my blankets and it's gross."

He yowled softly, and had the decency to look almost bashful. After a moment he tried to brush grime off his smock. Heather cringed.

"No, not on the carpet!"

He jumped at the tone of her voice, and then grumbled, twitching slightly. She smacked a hand over her face and shook her head. A part of her could not believe she was having this interaction with a very tall and muscular, possibly undead, monstrous abomination of nature, who may or may not have been the attendant to a demonic god who loved hatred and suffering, who lacked a face of any kind, whose mouth was actually located on the side of his head, who was hanging upside down from her ceiling, and who may or may not have been wearing a smock made of human flesh. She sighed. Then an idea occurred to her.

"Well then, we'll give you a bath," she announced, and then blinked at him. The monster twitched and made a bewildered rumble, padding about on her ceiling if he did so. The air after her pronouncement was a little awkward. She scratched the back of her head. Hmm. "Is it even possible to bathe you?" she asked remedially after a moment. The metatron twitched about, offering no answer to her. After a few seconds he padded at a ceiling light, and caused it to dim considerably. He padded it, and it became bright again. Pad off. Pad on. Pad off. Pad on. Dim. Bright. Dim. Bright. Dim...

Heather watched this. Could his smock could even be removed? And if he did take a bath, would all the grime just reappear the next time he came to visit? Well, it was difficult to say without giving it a try. Was Valtiel _actually _male? She pursed her lips thoughtfully as he played with the light. That was... hard to infer. It seemed to Heather like Silent Hill monsters were more like skins, worn by ideas. They might embody masculine anger or sexuality, but they tended to be genderless. Out of all the naked monsters Heather had fought, none of them had sported genitalia. Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, she was curious to see what would come of her sudden whimsy to clean him.

Heather walked up under the metatron, reached up, and grabbed his elbow. He grunted and his head snapped in her direction like his neck had been broken, and continued to spasm in its normal fashion. Idly, she wondered what his spasms signified in the great Psychological Mind Spiral of Silent Hill. Someone out there must have been afraid of Epilepsy. She tugged on his elbow. "Come on, I'm serious. You need a bath. You're gross."

The monster made a bewildered coo, but he let her pull his forearm down to her level. His anatomy was almost perfectly human, unlike most of the Silent Hill monsters. His muscles flexed smoothly under very human skin. His bicep and forearm were well defined. If it weren't for his split skin and fused fingers, the arm she was tugging on would have looked natural on any professional athlete. It reminded her of a certain ex-military person she'd met with earlier in the day. She glanced at the arm, then looked back up at Valtiel's face.

No, she decided. Valtiel was most likely genderless She decided to make a bet with herself on it. If Valtiel was genderless, it meant she was unfolding Silent Hill's mystery. If Valtiel was physically male, she'd go out and buy herself an ice cream, and try not to be too depressed that Silent Hill's rationality still left her grasping at straws. In fact she'd be more bothered about Silent Hill's inconsistency than about signing herself up to bathe him. A naked guy was a relatively simple, mundane problem to handle. Insane mind spirals were far worse for her psyche.

As masculine as Valtiel's form may or may not have been, she couldn't help but think of him as a cat. And maybe, by proxy, as something as a child. Her hand slipped down his forearm to his wrist, and she placed his hand into her unoccupied one. She clasped her fingers about his palm, and then gently tugged him towards the laundry room exit. The metatron tilted his head to the side (another unsettling snap). For a moment he watched her, baffled. Then a sudden realization struck him. He eased into his usual crawling position, and scuttled along the ceiling after her. He even purred a little.

Heather led him by the hand out of the laundry room, through the house, and up towards the upstairs bathroom. She wondered if, like a cat, he might have some aversion to water...


	10. Valtiel is Dirty

Valtiel did not, as it turned out, dislike water. In fact, he was quite mesmerized by it. When she turned on the spicket to fill the bath tub, he climbed down to ground level so that he might bat at the falling water with one of his hands. Heather stared at him when he started doing this, and then broke out laughing. The sudden noise made Valtiel jump. After he ascertained that nothing was wrong with her, he went back to batting at the water.

_Somehow I'd imagined the attendant to god being a little more dignified, _she thought wryly, and was not at all disappointed.

"We have to get your smock off if you want to have a bath," she told him, and reached over to touch the laces at the back of his outfit. Valtiel went very still for a moment and then slowly 'looked' back at her, his tongue slithering out of his mouth and wiggling around in the air. Heather lifted a brow. "What?"

The metatron didn't say anything and didn't move so much as a muscle. Heather hesitated for a moment, uncertain about the proper course of action. Then, assuming that Valtiel would stop her if she was doing anything wrong, she carefully felt along the laces. It took a moment of feeling around, but then she realized the laces formed a continuous circuit. They weren't tied off anywhere, and they were never meant to be untied.

_Hmm._ Heather tilted her head to the side, and then reached over and opened up a drawer beside the sink. After rummaging around for a bit, her hands alighted on a pair of scissors, and she pulled the tool out and brought them to the monster's smock. She glanced at Valtiel's face, hoping for some kind of permission, but the metatron didn't budge except to twitch subtly.

_Well, here goes nothing. _She put one blade of the scissors under the laces, one on top, and then squeezed the pair closed. The touch leather material resisted cutting for a moment, and Heather found herself wondering if perhaps they were indestructible. A moment later, however, the scissor blades chewed successfully through the leather, and the lace came undone.

Valtiel shifted slightly, but did not protest. Heather glanced at his face and then took both sides of the smock's opening, and carefully pulled them apart. She revealed leathery, pale skin, scarred and blue-veined like the rest of him. Like on his arms, areas of his flesh were split open almost aesthetically, in neat and morbidly elegant triangles, revealing pink tissue beneath. The black, smooth skin that covered his neck and shoulders also extended a few inches down his back.

Valtiel didn't move to help her by shrugging off the garment, so she lifted her hands to the thick shoulder straps and eased them down over his shoulders. He didn't budge his arms to pull them out of the straps, just letting the leather tongues sag down to his elbows. Heather lifted a brow. The metatron squirmed a little, and his tongue twirled through the air. She shook her head.

"You are the weirdest..." she trailed off and then shook her head again and leaned over to grab his elbow. He clung to the bathtub with his fingers. Heather cleared her throat and gave his arm a little smack. He released the tub quickly, as if he'd suddenly figured out what she was doing and was making haste to assist. "Thank you." She grabbed his elbow and pulled it carefully through the shoulder strap of the outfit, and then moved to do the same with his other arm.

The smock, which was heavier than it looked, dropped quickly to a puddle around his feet, and Valtiel immediately shook himself, causing Heather to topping back onto her rear. She winced slightly and then sat back to look him over.

_Hmm._

She had the strangest feeling, like she was getting a behind-the-scenes tour at a movie studio, and seeing beyond the boundaries of a set. Despite this, there was nothing unfinished about the metatron. He was consistent from top to bottom. The muscles of his back and legs were as pronounced as those along his arms.

Heather grinned, pushing hair out of her face. "Nice butt," she complemented, and then reached forward to steal one of the metatron's boots. He twitched and grumbled and snorted, and then finally let her lift up his foot. The boot was permanently laced as well, so she cut the strings and the slipped the boot off. His toes were clubbed slightly, and fused together much in the same way as his fingers. What toenails he had were more like claws, thick, pointed, and curved down over the front of the toes.

Heather glanced at Valtiel, and an evil grin slowly spread over her face. She reached behind her and into the cleaning cabinet, and pulled out a feather duster she knew was stored there. Valtiel blinked. She lifted the feather-duster slowly, carefully, and then tickled the foot. The monster convulsed spasmodically, gave a plaintive yowl, and scrabbled at the side of the tub. His foot kicked rapidly until it broke free of her grip.

The girl broke out laughing. She couldn't help it, especially when Valtiel gave her such a dirty look. She lifted her hands placating, and then slowly went to steal his other boot. He let her.

"Alright, you're undressed. Get in the tub!" she said, and stood up to make shooing motions at him. The monster eyed her crossly, as if asking how he was supposed to follow this order when he couldn't even undress himself. Heather planted her hands on her hips and raised a brow. "Don't give me that look, I know you're not dumb," she told him. "Into the tub, mister, or I'll push you in!" He whined. She tapped her foot playfully. "You're dirty, smelly, covered in god only knows what- literally- and clearly have never bathed. Get in!"

He grumbled, and then slowly leaned over the edge of the tub and crawled in. He liked how the water splashed about his arms, and set about to hitting the water happily.

"Hey now- bah, you're going to soak the bathroom!"

He purred. She scowled and then laughed. A thought reoccurred to her, and she leaned to the side, trying to catch a look...

_Nothing_! Genderless. Everything inside her lit up with a triumphant sense of victory. Silent Hill had just made sense. She'd made a prediction about it, and the prediction had come true.

Words could not describe the sensation. It was more joyful than a thousand Christmases.

Valtiel 'looked' up at her, twitching only a little now, and cooed enthusiastically about the hot water. Heather laughed and reached out to pat his arm. She stepped back for a moment to grab a washcloth, and then came up again to kneel beside the tub.

I'm _almost_ disappointed," she remarked jovially, "I expected almost expected Silent Hill to do something different this time, out of pure spite." He had no idea what she was talking about, and splashed at her. She got a mouthful of dirty _Otherworld_ water and yelped, spitting it out vigorously and grimacing.

Valtiel gurgled happily at her.

Heather choked out some more water. "I hate you," she told him flatly.

He tapped her gently on the nose. He still had his gloves on and they were gross, and they left a smudge of blood on her face. Heather scowled and wiped viciously at the grime, before frowning at Valtiel. The Seal of the Metatron was a little clearer against his shoulder now, and for some reason her eyes fixated on it.

The Mason girl shivered. She'd been treating Valtiel as if he were a friend or pet; a mute but benevolent companion. Certainly not the angel-attendant to an evil god who demanded blood and suffering from her worshipers. For a moment she promised herself that she wasn't crazy; that Valtiel wasn't a hallucination. But then what _wa_s he? Just a psychological construct? Something Alessa had brought to life out of nothingness? That didn't seem like _enough_ to explain him. What if Valtiel really _was_ some other-worldly being, sent by a real god? An evil god? Heather had suggested as much to her shrink.

Valtiel became agitated. He made soft rumbling noises and leaned out of the tub, reaching up to her and pawing at her. Heather shrunk away from him a moment, earning some hisses and yowls before the metatron went strangely quiet.

She sat on her rump a few feet away from the tub and stared at him, and wondered if she was having a fit or a moment of clarity. The line between the two became smudged once boogiemen took up residence in one's home. Valtiel reoriented himself in the tub so he was on his knees, his hands placed on the edge of the basin, his fingers clenched, and his twitching head hovering above them. For a moment, girl and monster did little more than watch each other. A rubber ducky sponge holder floated past him.

She had a sensation then, a sure instinct, that told her he was going to climb out of the bath and try to touch her. Comfort her. She didn't want that. She wanted to keep him away from her for a moment. She didn't think she could handle this. Was this a liberation from madness, or a meltdown? Was this desperately breaking free of something that was going to lull her into mindlessness, or was this a foolish denial of her only anchor? There was _no way_ of knowing. Everything was nonsense in Silent Hill. "You frighten me," she whispered, trying to hold the insanity at bay.

The creature tilted his head to the side, not with a snap, but with a slow, calculated rotation. That scared her. When Valtiel was upset or agitated, he usually twitched _more, _not less. The smooth motion felt- felt predatory. Fear rose up in her gut, nameless fear, unexplained fear. She had to run. She had to get out of the room. She had to get out of the house, away from this, away from this monster, away from this insanity, she needed her shrink, she needed-

The lights started flickering. There was steam coating the mirrors and windows in the bathroom, and over each surface, letters started to appear. "HEATHER" "HEATHER" HEATHER" on every glossy tile, on every inch of full length door mirror, in the dampness on her bathroom towels. Every cabinet began to twitch, the door opening, than slamming shut randomly.

The Seal of the Metatron stood out clearly on each of Valtiel's shoulders. His head lowered a bit, his tongue easing out from between the lips of his mouth, tasting the air.

Heather lunged forward. She scrambled across the bathroom tiles on all fours, not towards the door, but towards the bath tub. She grabbed Metatron's face in both hands, and jerked it down to her level, staring into where his eyes would be if he had possessed them.

"Stop!" she pleaded with him. "Please! Stop!"

A growing quantity of red on the corners of her vision told her something very, very, very bad was happening in her bathroom. She had no doubt about what she would see should she choose to look. She heard creaking rust and breaking pipes. The metatron was more or less staring at her, not twitching, not shaking. She gaped at him a moment, and then shut her eyes and grit her teeth, leaning her temple against his chin.

"Valtiel," she muttered, slowly easing her arms around his neck as liquid hot, warm, and smelling of copper lapped against her feet. "Fine. Fuck it!" she hissed. "Drop me into the fog, the otherworld, whatever, _fuck you_, But if you disappear on me, if you leave me alone there, over _one fucking relapse_, if you _abandon_ me, I am going to be _so unbelievably_ _pissed with you_."

Pipes stopped creaking. The heat and smell and dampness of blood was gone. The creature beneath her temple was twitching. She swallowed hard and slowly opened her eyes to a very normal bathroom, with normally foggy windows, and a very abnormal resident still curled up in the tub. She could see the smooth black skin about his throat, and just the very edge of the metatron's red brand where it stood out on his shoulder. He lifted his hands and pawed uncertainly at her, and then made a very strange sound, almost a _pained_ sound, deep and flat and low in his vocal range.

Heather took in a long, slow breath. Then she tilted her head back, looking up at the Boogieman's near featureless face. He was starting to twitch a lot now. The muscles in his neck were taut. She grimaced slightly, not at him, but more at what had almost happened. After a moment she moved a hand back to his face, watching as he stilled on one axis of motion to make the touch possible.

"You're real," she murmured suddenly. He flinched away from her. She followed his face with her hand and her eyes. "You're real," she said again, her fingers caressing over the rough leather, like one might appraise the crude texture of a ragdoll. But this ragdoll was warm. She could feel life under her fingertips. His skin twitched slightly, it was clear he could feel her. He twitched and spasmed. His fingers clutched at the air about her helplessly. He made another pained utterance. A moment passed. Then he suddenly seized her and clutched him to her painfully tight. Heather grunted in alarm.

"Breaking ribs!" she gasped out.

He released her instantaneously, darting back away from her, smacking into the other side of the tub, cowering down from her. Heather winced, choked, looked around her bathroom for a moment, and finally looked back to the Boogeyman huddled somewhat frightened, somewhat bashful, against the other side of the bath tub. Then she groaned and plopped down on her ass. She glanced briefly at where she'd stowed the feather duster, and then slowly leaned over the edge of the bathtub, and reached into the water to grab her original washcloth.

She grabbed it in hand and wrung icky rust water from it, and then lifted her gaze to her Boogieman. _Her_ Boogieman. "Come here," she told him. He hesitated. "Come on," she encouraged. "You won't hurt me." After a moment, he peeled himself off the back wall of the tub, and slowly shifted towards her again. She lifted the washcloth and pressed it to his shoulder, and started wiping away ancient grime and rust. It worked. The grime loosened. She sidled closer to the edge of the tub, and grasped his arm with her other hand to stabilize it, and began the task of scrubbing away the filth. The metatron twitched and flinched occasionally, but did not pull away from her.

Her mind was working rapidly; at the same time she thought of almost nothing. After a moment she leaned closer to examine her handiwork, and was pleased to see that she was making some headway. Right. Well. Time to break out the soap, and maybe turn the shower head on. The water was filthy. She needed a cleaner washcloth most likely. This was going to be a long job.

She set the washcloth down and looked up at his face, at his twitching, unnatural, spastic, epileptic twitching.

"I'm keeping you," she told him. He convulsed, and went very still. She was still a moment. Then she reached over and pet what she could reach of his head and back, getting up to her knees, and then sitting on the edge of the bath. He didn't lift himself up any farther or follow her face with his gaze. He seemed to still be cowering a little. He twitched under her fingers and slowly placed his forearms back on the edge of the bath."Let me keep you," she requested this time. "Angel. God. Monster. Guardian. Executioner. Healer. Whatever you are." Fused fingers kneaded the tub. "I'm braver when you're here. Don't leave me alone. I can see you are trying to help."

He grumbled weakly and then rubbed his face against her leg.

Heather swallowed and took a few calming breathes. She felt like she had just run a psychiatric marathon. She felt like she'd accomplished more in the last hour than she had in the last year. "Whatever I did to set you off," she murmured, "Try to warn me next time." He shuddered and nuzzled a little more firmly. Heather tilted her head to the side. Then she reached out to pry one of his hands from the side of the tub. For a moment he resisted her, so she scooped both hands under his palm and tried to loosen one finger at a time. His grip was like steel for a moment. Then it softened. She pulled his hand into both of hers, and then pulled the glove off to his helpless twitching.


	11. While We are on the Subject of Gloves and Ice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be pairing Heather and Valtiel romantically. But nothing says Heather can't enjoy the fact that her housemate is built like a six and a half foot tall Olympic athlete, right? Usually I love human-monster romances. But for this specific story, I wanted a sweeter distillation of love; the heroine and her enigmatic, unknowable, terrifying, adorable guardian.

He'd splashed her again.

Heather glared.

Valtiel grumbled contently. She eyed him scathingly a moment, but he looked so cute and pleased with himself that she couldn't stay angry. Heather sighed, rolled her eyes, bunched up her sleeves, and then picked up her washcloth and started to rub filth from the side of his face. After a moment, the metatron arched his neck and purred throatily. He leaned toward her so she could get better access to him, and continued to purr.

"Yes, that's it. No more splashing."

He thrummed happily.

Heather was mindful of his split skin. The 'wounds,' while apparently quite natural to the metatron, nevertheless looked rather awful. She was worried that excessive scrubbing might cause them to bleed. The flesh had gathered an exceptional amount of grime, however, so she spent a large portion of her time gently dabbing filth from them. He liked the attention. She kept changing the water, and eventually broke out the soap.

Two hours, many gallons of water, and a lot of dirty washcloths later, and Valtiel was looking fairly clean. Of course, there were certain parts of him she couldn't reach, and certain parts she had no desire to reach, but prolonged soaking had gotten most of the residual grime off.

"Alright, stand up for me, will you?" she coaxed, and got up to her feet. Valtiel grumbled up at her as she unplugged the bath drain and the water began to leech out. He splashed the surface of the water for a moment and then slowly stood up. He had a bestial way of moving that was somehow ten times more obvious now that he was hunched, nude, in front of her. The curve of his back, the way he hugged his shoulders in and bent his elbows, the bent knees... His lack of manhood might have made the animistic crudeness less strange if he did not reek masculinity with all his remaining features. She wondered at the psychological justification for his shape; Valtiel himself seemed neither overtly violent or sexual. Heather supposed his physique could represent the non-feminine ideal of power... but then that seemed slightly at cross purposes with his duty as an assistant and perhaps healer.

She thought for a moment as she reached forward and rubbed at a stubborn piece of dirt along the back of one of his arms.

There was a possibility that she was getting a biased sampling of Valtiel. The angel had been nonviolent _towards Heather. _There was every possibility that Valtiel behaved violently towards everyone else. The only time Heather had seen him with another person nearby, Valtiel had utterly destroyed Claudia Wolfe. And he'd displayed incredibly hostility towards Heather's therapist. The sect devoted to him, the Sect of Valtiel, was known specifically for it's red-hooded executioners.

Either that or the order god, being female, just liked surrounding herself with 'attractive' but anatomically incorrect dolls.

She settled the wash cloth down and moved a hand back to the water spicket. Valtiel growled softly. "Brace yourself," she said with a laugh, and then turned on the shower head. She was fortunate she had warned him, or Valtiel might have attacked her shower spicket. As it was, he yowled and leaped to the opposite side of the bath, leaning against the wall and climbing unnaturally halfway up it. Heather laughed more, and flicked some of the spray at him.

"Come on, silly cat. It's just more water."

He grumbled, remaining firmly in his perch. Heather grabbed his arm and tugged him back into the shower. A moment later and he was twisting about, purring happily at the little jets of water as they fell against him. Heather shook her head and let him dance about for a little while, until she decided he was clean. Then she turned the shower off, and coaxed him out of the tub.

She watched him reach out for his smock, and she grunted and kicked the dirty garment away from him. He jumped in surprise. "That's _fillthy_," she told him. "You can't get all clean and then pull dirty clothes back on! Just give me a second, I'll bring them downstairs and wash them for you. Ugh, and your boots and gloves while I'm at it. Blech."

He whined slightly and poked at his smock. Then he looked up at her sort of trustingly. Heather blinked down at him. Well, he wasn't anatomically correct. But he _was_ nude, and he was indisputably a 'he'. After a moment, she turned around and pulled out a white bathrobe from one of her cupboards. "Here," she said, coming over and casting the garment across his back. "Give me your arms, one at a time now... you can wear this until your clothes are clean." The metatron seemed quite surprised by all this, but he gave her his hands, one arm at a time, and let her pull them through the sleeves of the robe. She settled it about his shoulders, drew the front of the robe shut, and tied the cloth belt about his waist. When she was done and had stood up with his dirty things, he remained seated on the floor, looking at the fluffy sleeves with utter bafflement.

Heather glanced at him as she threw a few towels about to soak up all the splashed water and then headed for her bathroom doorway. She couldn't help but smile at the surreal cuteness of all this. Seated in the middle of her bathroom, a faceless horror antagonist was innocently examining his new poofy white bathrobe. She felt as if she were looking at a doll that had been brought to life, and was witnessing its baffled epiphany the moment it first realized it could change its own clothing. She smiled at him, thoroughly endeared, and then headed downstairs with an armful of disgusting clothing.

* * *

Heather eventually left the laundry to stew in bleach overnight. She doubted the bleach would seriously weaken the fabric material, and its stains were beyond her ability to scrub. Valtiel did not exactly like this state of affairs. He whined and 'pouted' and poked at the filthy smock, but the smell of bleach seemed to disagree with him. After a time he followed her about the house, yowling plaintively, repeatedly, for over an hour.

Heather heated up some spaghetti and meatballs for the both of them, partitioned it into bowls, placed his bowl on the counter in front of him, and then sat down to enjoy his own meal. He poked at the food for awhile, yowling and fretting and occasionally going into the laundry room to check on the progress of his smock. After a few seconds he would always return, disgusted by the bleach. After a few trips to and from the laundry room, and after tugging helplessly on her shirtsleeve without yielding a change in his situation, he clambered up onto one of her bar stools, and peered down at the bowl of spaghetti unhappily.

A few minutes later and Heather was treated to the dubious pleasure of watching a sullen metatron curl up at her kitchen islet, arms wrapped around a large bowl of noodles, slurping up a batch of noodles at a time with a long sinuous black tongue. Heather tried very hard not to laugh. It only took a few mouthfuls of noodles and a meatball before Valtiel was in a considerably better mood. He stopped his unhappy yowling. A few minutes later, Heather headed up to bed.

She waited, fresh blankets wrapped around her. And she held back smiles. A few minutes later she felt the mattress depress as another person, heavy and warm and real, climbed onto the covers beside her. Valtiel sat behind her for awhile, perhaps watching her, perhaps missing his smock, perhaps just lost in thought. Heather was almost asleep when he curled up against her back and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

Yeah, she decided as she drifted off to sleep. Whatever other anatomy Valtiel lacked, he was definitely and intentionally masculine. The breadth of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, the muscles of his forearms and biceps- these things were garments of masculinity; clothing for the ideas that'd formed him. He held her like her father had once held her. Like her husband might one day hold her. Protectively. Reassuringly. In fact, that made a lot of sense. Alessa probably attributed the attribute of 'protection' to men, men like Harry Mason and Travis Grady. And hadn't Alessa used the Seal of the Metatron to protect _herself_? So it all connected in a weird way.

Whatever. Valtiel was very warm. And he felt very safe. Heather was almost completely asleep before she knew it. Her last thought, which faded off into dream, was that this was probably how it would feel if a certain ex-military man were to hold her._  
_

Her monster purred soothingly into her ear. Nothing, not in this world or any other, was going to disturb her while she slept that night.

Nothing would disturb the Mother of God.

* * *

"Well, you're still dressed like a Halloween serial killer, but at least you're not dirty. Just stained." Valtiel gurgled at her and she smirked, smoothing out the front of his smock. "I ironed it. But I'm sure you'll wrinkle it up soon enough. I think this is the longest I've ever seen you actually _stand_ in one place."

The metatron huffed, but then made pleased, unnatural coos as he felt over his own clothing. After a moment he blinked and held out his hands.

Heather crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat. "Those gloves were beyond disgusting."

He growled.

"Valtiel, I'll make you new gloves. Promise."

He whined.

"They were caked with so much gore I'm not even sure if there was linen in them at all! And you like grabbing me, and you've helped me cook, and you're always _touching_ things. Presumably because you don't have _eyes_. I'll make you new gloves. In fact, I'll go to the store today and buy some gloves and sew the right fingers together and whatnot. Okay?"

He gave a leonine snort, and seemed to pout slightly, but then lowered his hands to his sides.

"Right... well... I'll get right on that. You know, I had to clean your boot soles out with a crowbar, and they're still in pretty bad condition. You want me to get a replacement for those, too?" He gave a plaintive growl and leaped up to the ceiling, clinging to it and getting his feet well out of her reach. She blinked and smiled up at him. "I'll take that as a no. See you in an hour or so, then, Valtiel."

Heather grabbed the keys to her car, picked up her heavy jacket, and wrapped a scarf about her neck. It was getting into the winter months now, and although snow hadn't fallen outside, it was cold enough to make her nose and ears numb. She dressed warm. She stepped out into the cool outdoors and closed and locked the door behind her. When she turned around to head towards her car, however, a predicament made itself known.

A twisted monster was standing in her path. It was so thin as to be skeletal, and absolutely nude. It stood with it's knees turned inward and it's arms twined together in front of it. It's skin was blue with hypothermia and turned black near all of it's extremities. The face was entirely crusted over with black, so as to be unrecognizable. Gaping holes existed where it's cheeks might once have been. Sharp blue ice crystals were visible within the hollows. It was perpetually shivering

The creature gurgled and hissed and then went quiet and docked its head to the side. Heather's eyes widened.

"VALTIEL!" she shrieked, rapidly turning back to her doors and fumbling with her keys. She stole a glance at the creature, which was hissing. It took a shuddering step towards her and then opened it's mouth and pursed its lips. A long, gleaming blue icicle protruded slowly from it's mouth, clenched between white teeth and tattered black flesh. Heather stiffened.

_That looks almost like it can-! _Instinct alone saved her. She leaped to the side just as the creature spat out the icicle with physics-defying force. The sharp projectile thudded into her door, cutting a hole half an inch into the solid wood and bursting in a flurry of icy shrapnel.

Heather swore and made a dash for the side of the house. If she could get to her car or her back door, she'd be able to get to a weapons stash!

"Valtiel!" she wailed again. Horrified disbelief was warring with her pragmatic need to survive, both striving to make themselves heard. She couldn't believe this was happening. _Now?_ An icicle-spitting monster? Why? What could Silent Hill possibly want from her that involved the cold? Did this have anything to do with her father?

A roar sounded behind her. Not the roar of a lion, _per se_, but more the battle cry of a panther or tiger. Heather spun around on her next stride and turned to see that the icicle monster was gone. Startled cries and hisses drew her attention upwards, to the roof of her house. Valtiel was perched on her rain gutter, holding the otherworld monster suspended over the ground by one leg. With another roar, he seized the creature's left arm, pulled, and promptly ripped the creature in half in a diagonal line along it's torso. The remaining pieces went limp immediately and the metatron dropped them to the earth. Upon contact with her sidewalk, the remains shattered like ice, into countless little snowflakes.

Heather shuddered. She panted for a moment, trying to suppress her fight-or-flight adrenaline rush, and then swallowed hard. Her eyes looked to the spot where the creature had fell, and then lifted back up to her protector.

"... ... Valtiel?" she whispered, and was ashamed to hear her voice crack.

The metatron 'looked' to her. He gave a soft growl and then quickly scuttled down the wall of her house and up to where she was standing. He moved on all fours, as was usual. If the cold bothered his hands, he didn't show it.

"Valtiel," she gulped, "what was that?"

The monster hissed almost disdainfully and then gurgled and reached up to touch her arms reassuringly. When she started to shiver, he stood and embraced her in a tight, if slightly twitchy, hug.

Heather choked back a sob. Her voice was almost pleading now. "Valtiel...!"

The metatron growled and rocked her slightly from side to side. He rubbed over her back. 'Just a fluke,' he seemed to say. 'It wasn't here for you. Nothing bad is going to happen. It was just a fluke.' She wanted to believe his silent reassurances, but it was hard- so hard- and so much was at stake. Even so, his attentions soothed her. She pressed her face into his collar and breathed deep, ignoring the ways his muscles twitched beneath his flesh.

He was warm despite his meager clothing, and his pulse thrummed strong and virile beneath her cheek. It took awhile, but gradually her fear began to ooze out of her body, and her own heartbeat began to steady. She took in several slow breaths, and then lifted her head to look up at the faceless metatron.

Her voice was still small when she finally managed to talk. "... Can you come with me to the store...?" she asked him. "Please?"

He seemed to look at her, then gave what could only be interpreted as a nod, and took his arms from around her. He carefully clasped her wrists, one in each of his hands, and then drew them up and placed her palms over her eyes. Confused, Heather just let him do as he wished. She felt him release her arms and heard him step backwards.

When she lowered her hands, he had vanished. For a moment she felt a wave of panic rush over her. Then she recalled that Valtiel had nodded to her request. She thought about it and then came to the conclusion that Valtiel was going to follow her from the otherworld, where he could move unseen. Personally, she would rather him standing beside her, physical, concrete, and real_. _But... she supposed that Valtiel would frighten innocent Christmas shoppers if he followed her around in the flesh. She took in a few steadying breaths, took one last look at where the icicle monster had fallen, and then turned and made her way to her car.

One thing was for sure: She'd never have to worry about muggers ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silent Hill doesn't seem picky about gender pronouns. The Order refers to their deity as 'God' despite the fact that she's usually depicted as female (which would be 'Goddess'). From my experience with persons of unusual gender, the proper thing to do is to refer to them by whatever pronoun they personally prefer. But we can't exactly ask Valtiel, now can we? Heather doesn't seem to find the lack of parts a deal-breaker though. He is pretty clearly masculine from where she's standing.


	12. Baking Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I forgot to upload this chapter. So here it is, sandwiched in the middle!

**H&H Masons' Famous Sugar Cookies** _   
_

_1 and a half cups buffer, softened._   
_2 cups white sugar_   
_4 eggs_   
_1 teaspoon vanilla extract_   
_5 cups all-purpose flour_   
_2 teaspoons baking powder_   
_1 teaspoon salt_

1\. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar until smooth. Beat in eggs and-

SPLURT- Yowl! CRASH-SHATTER-Floof! "Hey! Sto- _Valtiel!_" "HSSSSS!" Splat! Crackle.

Heather sighed. It was October 13th, and a Friday, and she was making holiday sugar cookies. These cookies were a month early; they were truly Christmas cookies, and the earliest they ought to have arrived was Thanksgiving. But it was Friday The Thirteenth, and Halloween was half a month away. She needed to do something to stave off all the bad juju.

Heather had turned off the electric beater at the first sign of trouble, which was fortunate as Valtiel might otherwise have accidentally maimed her with it. He'd been surprised by, of all things, a tube of frosting, which had clearly not behaved in the way he'd initially expected. Now there was a fog of flour all over her kitchen, half a dozen splattered eggs all over her floor and bar stools, and, a stick of butter splattered up against her wall, and a gallon of milk precariously careening about, threatening- but failing- to void its contents over her unlit gas stove top.

Heather settled the electric mixer down and reached over to steady the milk jug. She was glad it hadn't fallen; it was a real chore trying to clean anything out of a gas stove top, much less spilled milk. She looked critically over at Valtiel, who had one egg splattered on his face and was sitting bewildered atop a large pile of spilled flour. He rumbled bashfully and dusted flour off the upper portion of his smock.

She gave a heavy sigh, picked up a dish rag, rinsed it off in her sink, and then came up to him with the intention of cleaning off his face. He held very still for her, clinging slightly to her cooking apron and mumbling apologetically. When he was clean, she leaned over, put her hands under his arms, and pulled the monster up to his booted feet. He gurgled in surprise, but let her take him by the hand and lead him across the kitchen, over to where she'd been mixing the batter. Wordlessly, she took one of his hands in each of her own, and proceeded to direct him like a marionette. One hand she placed to steady the bowl, the other she used to pick up and turn on the mixer.

Aha. Victory. If there was anything Valtiel was particularly good at, it was turning things in a circle. Soon he was dutifully mixing the batter as if the universe depended on his success. Heather watched him for a moment to make sure he wasn't about to damage the cookie batter in any way. Then she went about the kitchen cleaning up what she could: the butter, the eggs, and the largest piles of flour. He watched her broom it all up as if she were performing the most fascinating task int he world.

Heather turned on an air filter to try and get the remaining flour dust out of the air, and resigned herself to the fact that she would have to broom and dust the room once more in a few hours. Then she came back to the metatron and started adding some more ingredients. When the dough was quite finished she disentangled him from the mixer (He didn't want to stop mixing) and shooed him some distance away. There was a basket full of cookie cutters in the back of one of her kitchen cabinets. She fished them out and settled them down with a cookie sheet. Soon she had rolled out the dough and was cutting out Christmas Trees and Santa Claus shaped cookies.

She glanced over at Valtiel. He was watching her curiously. She tugged him over, gave him a cookie cutter shaped like an angel for irony's sake, and put him to work. He made one cookie, trilled in glee, smooshed it up again, and then made another cookie out of the result. Heather shook her head. "You're so weird," she laughed at him. "Are you making, killing and then reincarnating a cookie?" He purred. "I don't know how we're going to make it through the holidays. See that cookie cutter you're holding? It's shaped like an angel."

He looked at her in surprise, and then looked back to the cookie he'd made. Then he reached out to it and began reshaping it.

"No, don't tear the wings off! Angels are _supposed_ to have wings, Valtiel. You're just weird." He yowled in disagreement. She yowled right back at him, swiped his cookie cutter, and gave him a star-shaped one instead. He started turning all the star-shaped cookies into Mannequins. She told him he was breaking Christmas. He pouted and stopped helping. Heather rolled her eyes. She put together a ream of cookies and then handled the laden cookie sheet to him carefully. "Here," she said. "Put this in the oven on the top rack."

Valtiel blink and took the cookie sheet in both hands. He regarded the shapes curiously for a bit, noting their crisp lines and relative symmetry. After a moment he turned about and shuffled over to the oven. It was a bit of a balancing act for him to open the oven and then carefully ease in the cookie sheet, especially with his tendency to twitch and spasm and flail. Yet he managed to achieve the task without dropping anything, and was just about to close up the oven when his fingers- still ungloved- brushed against the hot oven rack.

Heather cringed, because the shriek behind her was ear-splitting and terrifying, and left a ringing noise in her ears and a panicked feeling in her gut. She turned around to find Valtiel on the ceiling, clutching one of his hands with the other and hissing, shrieking, and spitting at the oven. "What?!" she asked. He shrieked. She looked over at the offending appliance, ensured her cookies were unharmed, and then pushed the big oven door shut. Valtiel continued to scream. Heather winced. "_Stop_ that racket!" she protested, and then immediately felt guilty when Valtiel throttled one of his screams and then merely whimpered. She looked back up to him where he was clutching one of his hands to his chest. He must have burnt himself. Heather placed her hands on her hips and shook her head in disbelief.

"You _burned_ yourself?" she asked. "Your face, your hands, your split skin, your fused phalanges- youare a picture-perfect representation of someone who fought and lost an ugly battle with a fire. And you're telling me you don't know better than to touch something hot?"

He whined and sounded exactly like a crying child. Heather flinched. She should have known better. Valtiel might have looked like a burn victim, but he was _made_ to look that way. He didn't necessarily know how to deal with fire. And heck, most hot things in the _Otherworld_ were probably hallucinatory or under his direct control. Actually, Heather was mildly surprised Valtiel _could_ be hurt. But maybe it had been her responsibility to warn him not to touch the oven rack anyway.

Before she knew it she'd walked up beneath him. "Give me your hand," she told him, reaching up to where he was. He hissed. She lifted her brows. "Give me. Your Hand."

Metatron twitched and wriggled and hissed a little. Then he mewled and slowly cilmbed partway down her kitchen cabinets. His injured arm was twitching rapidly despite the relative smallness of the burn; It clearly took a lot of effort to hold the offended limb out to her. Heather took his hand in both of her own, pulled him down a little farther, and then brought his fingers up under the sink. She turned on the cold water. He jumped and gave a startled exclamation, before calming down and just hovering there, fingertips in the water.

Heather held his fingers under the water for a bit, till it was clear that he'd remain there of his own accord. Then she released his arm and walked over to her medicine cabinets. She rummaged around for a tin of burn ointment, extracted it from among the rows of Band-aids and Tums, and then came back to her Boogieman and carefully eased his fingers out of the water. She smeared the ointment liberally over his fingers. There was a moment of silence between them. Then Valtiel rewarded her with a soft, appreciative coo.

"The holidays," she muttered with amusement. "It's not even Halloween yet, and I don't know how we're going to survive _that_. But... I haven't made these cookies since dad died I-" her expression sobered. "I guess I just started thinking of him the other day. I wanted to practice making the cookies, you know? So that when Thanksgiving and Christmas start coming around, I can get the frosting right. The frosting was always the hardest part for me and I want to make sure its perfect."

Valtiel cooed softly, his fingers wriggling happily in her grasp. She watched as the burns on his fingers began to fade, and then disappeared entirely beneath her touch. She released his hand and he pulled it back in front of him for study. He licked the ointment to taste it, and purred. Heather smiled a little sadly up at him. Then her expression brightened mischievously "You know, I've never felt very comfortable celebrating Halloween. But I'm the artistic type, aren't I? What do you say we go all out this year. What do you say we have the _best decorated house on the block_. It'd be the only time of year you could wander around freely, you know? That'd be really cool."

He was still making happy sounds as he climbed down from the ceiling, down one set of cabinets and then another, and then down onto her floor. He rubbed his shoulder against her. She laughed. "You have to promise me not to hurt anyone," She told him. "And I'll do it. How does that sound?"

He cooed happily, and then crawled over to her work space and pulled himself up so his chin was even with the tabletop. He 'looked' from the batter, to the next cookie sheet, to the cookie cutters again. Then he pulled himself up to a standing position. To her amazement, he rolled out the dough and began pressing cookie cutters into it. He didn't rip the wings off a single angel.

* * *

She had found Valtiel some red leather gloves, sturdy and practical. When he hadn't immediately demanded the gloves after she'd returned home, she'd wondered if she could save them all the way to the holiday season. After the cooking episode, she brought them out and sewed the middle and ring finger together so they would accommodate his unusual hands. While she was busy sewing them, he crawled around on the ceiling and wriggled and gurgled in happy anticipation. When at last she declared them finished, he dropped to the ground instantaneously, and held out his hands. Heather laughed and slipped the gloves on, one at a time, and let him admire them.

"There, now you're just a creepy monsters instead of a creepy, _dirty_ monster."

He crooned happily and rubbed the whole of himself against her like a cat (which almost knocked her over), and clutched his hands to his chest. Valtiel had never acquired any other possessions since his inception, and he was quite excited about these new gloves. To be certain, they were not the original gloves with which he had first manifested, but they had been given to him by the Mother of God, and they were in ways wholly superior.

Heather chuckled and patted his leathery head. "Silly cat," she praised him. Valtiel purred.

* * *

Days became weeks.

Alex Shepherd managed to secure a temporary job in town. He needed to work; needed to feel productive; needed some sense of purpose, however small. It was mindless work, the transient labor kind of work, but it kept him busy, and it helped sooth his mind so close to Silent Hill.

Heather and Alex met up every two days; she alternated between visiting with the psychiatrist and visiting with him. She welcomed him to come with her on the drive out to the Lighthouse. He always declined. Life became patterned, if only for a short while.

At first the two survivors would meet up for lunch. When Alex secured his job, they started getting their morning coffee together instead. Heather did most of the talking. Alex needed someone sane to listen to. And most of their initial meetings involved her describing the history of Silent Hill, and the history of Alessa Gillespie. By unspoken agreement, each knew that the other was not quite ready to share their personal story. For the time being, history lessons and exposition were therapeutic enough. It soothed Alex to hear what sane place his insane torment had come from. And it soothed Heather to share what she knew, to speak it aloud, to reassure herself once more than it had been real.

"The way you talk about it… It's like listening to a narrative. Like it's a story you've told before," he noted after the first week or so. Heather glanced at him. He nursed his coffee thoughtfully, gazing down at some infinitely distant point over the top of its steaming surface. When she didn't immediately respond, his eyes turned to her. "The day we first started talking, you compared me to someone. When you said I was called because I repressed memories. James Sunderland."

Heather nodded. "I've told my story to a lot of people. Mediums. Shrinks. I needed help from _somewhere_. I had no one to turn to, no other 'survivors' to ask for guidance or help. But obviously no one genuinely believed me. I had almost given up when a friend recommended the doctor I'm seeing now. And it certainly took a lot of will power for… for me to drive back into that city the first few times. For me to walk past so many ghosts and shadows and half-people. But he…. He listens to me. Like no one before him ever listened. He believes the key to my stability rests in listening to me. He's never once suggested I hallucinated it all."

Alex nodded. There was a long moment of silence.

Heather sensed what was coming before he spoke again. She reached out and placed her hand over his.

"I killed my brother," he told her. "We were fighting over something on a fishing trip."

"I am the reincarnation of Alessa Gillespie," responded in kind. Warm eyes flit to her.

"I figured that out," he told her quietly. "I've seen their pictures of 'Saint Alessa,' 'Mother of God.' I was startled by the resemblance the first time I saw your picture. That's why I broke into your house. I had no idea whether you were safe to approach or not."

Heather blinked. She had dyed her hair blonde since their first meeting. Her psychiatrist had asked about it, but she'd evaded the question. She wasn't ready to talk about her confusion over her name just yet. Alex hadn't asked then, and he didn't ask now. She got the strangest impression he already understood. Within days of the change, he was already calling her Heather. As if he got it. As if clues in her face and her body language were all he needed. As if he were on exactly the same page as she was.

"If Alessa was psychic… are you?" he asked.

Heather blinked, pulling back from him, surprised by the question. She wasn't sure what to say. It was odd. Heather knew Alessa's abilities had been the reason she'd been chosen to birth the Goddess. And likewise, if Heather had the same Goddess-birthing potential, than she must have shared Alessa's abilities. But she certainly didn't _feel_ psychic. She'd never bent metal with her minds, or created any new tears in the fabric of reality.

She thought to a certain boogeyman and couldn't repress a shiver, closing her eyes against half memories and old dreams. She heard the scrape of a chair against the ground, and opened her eyes to find Alex kneeling beside her, his hands lifted worriedly to her face. "I'm sorry," he told her apologetically. "Blunt question. I'm sorry."

"I-" she hesitated, a little surprised by his nearness, but not exactly minding it. "I… Just… Maybe." She shook her head, and took in a long slow breath, looking down a moment before meeting his eyes. "To be honest I don't even really know what the question means. I can't… bend spoons with my brain. Or read minds."

He got back up to a crouch, still looking a little worriedly at her, but smiling slightly.

"Bummer."

She couldn't help a little laugh at that. Then she quickly sobered. "Whatever I am, it was good enough that I was _born_ pregnant with the Goddess. And when I was just a kid, they came for me." He frowned and rested a hand on her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.

"They killed my Dad." Her voice cracked at that. She took a moment to compose herself before continuing. Her breakfast companion seemed very concerned, but she didn't look up at him yet. "They hunted me and tortured me. Claudia said my hatred would nourish the baby and teach it compassion. Yeah. Sure. I ended up the only person left alive, with dissolved and broken bodies all over the place, shooting holes through a gigantic half-formed goddess with _my face _who was screaming like a banshee and trying to eat me alive. When it was done, I didn't have any home to go back to. I didn't have _shit_. I was a teenager. I had to go live with relatives I'd never met, live a 'normal' life, wondering the whole time if I was going to wake up one morning and find myself back in hell."

His hand was still on her shoulder, but he was quiet.

"They tried to have me committed for schizophrenia once," she noted sadly, and he shuddered. The fear of insanity was never far from any 'survivor's' mind, it seemed.

"I'm sorry," he told her again. "I didn't mean…"

"Yeah you did," she chuckled bitterly, her voice thick. "You want to know if I think you _deserved_ to be called there. If you _deserved_ to go through what you did. If I agree with Gillespie's idea of 'Justice.' If there's a danger of me turning into her and opening up another hole into the Otherworld."

For a moment, she received no reaction. Then Alex Shepherd knelt down again, pushed his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug. Heather stiffened in surprise. She wasn't used to much physical contact. Valtiel, Douglass, her psychiatrist- these were the only people who had touched her in years. She tried to get a look at Alex Shepherd's face, but he was holding her too tightly. And the embrace wasn't at all unpleasant. "You can definitely _not_ read minds," he promised her.

Heather quivered a little, and then hugged him back. It was different from hugging Douglass or her Shrink. It was different even from hugging Valtiel. The person holding her was her own age, fit, vulnerable, protective, attractive, and male. She felt warm. She liked it, the nearness, the tenderness, the softness of the embrace. When he pulled back a part of her was disappointed. She probably could have enjoyed that hug for a good fifteen minutes or longer.

"Tell me what happened to you," she implored him. He looked at her, then away, and he nodded slightly.

"A little bit…" he hazarded.

"Just a little bit," she agreed.

"My brother's death was an accident," he told her, sinking back into his chair, and reaching shakily for his coffee. "He hit his head and fell out of the boat. And I know that, now. I accept that. That I was just a stupid kid, and it was an accident. I miss my brother, and I love him, but it was an accident. But that wasn't… _that_ wasn't the whole of it. That was like an iceberg tip." He looked down at the mug, but didn't lift it up to drink.

"You don't have to say any more, Alex."

"I'm from Shepherd's Glenn, not Silent Hill, exactly."

Heather blinked, surprised. "Shepherd's Glenn is supposed to be safe from the Order's God, isn't it? That would explain why you aren't a 'believer'..."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "At a price. The sacrifice of four children, ever fifty years. One from each of the founding families."

Heather grimaced. She might have known.

"My parents were planning to sacrifice me to the god as part of that covenant. And when my brother died instead, I 'messed everything up' for the family. The thing I'd been fighting over with my brother was… was the family ring. My father gave it to him, not me, and I'd been jealous."

He stopped talking there, staring at his mug. His voice had cracked a little. Heather didn't say anything for the moment, sympathizing with him, but now admiring him. She understood that vulnerability she saw in his face, that need for validation.

And she was privy again to that surprising strength when he tried to keep talking. "I-I don't know if- I can't- What I remember doesn't-."

She reached over and gently placed both of her hands on his. He looked at her. "It's okay," She told him. "Give it some more time." He took in a shuddering breath and nodded.

"I made peace with my brother," he told her after a second. "With my family. What scares me most now is that my memories won't line up straight."

Heather nodded. "Easy, Alex. Why don't I tell you a little bit about my own journey."_  
_

It took him a bit to settle down. Part of him wanted to get out his whole story in one sitting. Part of him knew he couldn't manage it. When Heather started to talk again, he eased into the back of his chair and listened.

Before they left for the day, Alex noted the cafe owner was setting up Halloween decorations. He blanched slightly. Heather laughed at his expression.

"I've been going all out on my house for Halloween " she told him. "I've even called a few of my usual clients, telling them I'm using the season to do 'installation art.' My house'll be swamped in camera crews come October 31st."

"I will _not_ be visiting," he informed her. "But I appreciate, in a detached, morbid sort of way, how cool that is going to be."


	13. Heather Becomes Jealous

**DAYBROOK TIMES**

_Local Artist Cheryll "Heather" Mason wins National Best Decorated House Award for Halloween. Visit our website and click on the Best Trick Or Treat Haunted Houses Link to take a virtual tour of the best decorated house of the year. From terrifying animatronics, background decorations, an atmosphere, to automated candy dispensers and volunteer actors, this house has it all. Visitors praised the six foot paintings which served as backdrops for haunted hallways leading up to the home's front porch. However, the main highlight of this decorated house was one of its scarers. A retired acrobat, this actor crawled about the exterior of the home, through the trees, and throughout the hallways on tight ropes, jumping out at visitors and scaring the candy out of them._

* * *

Heather glanced at Valtiel. "Well. I think that definitely settles the question of whether other people can see you or not," she said jokingly. He tilted his head to the side from where he was upside down, investigating a pillowcase full of candy. She turned the newspaper around, where a picture of their house had been printed. "You're famous!" she told him. "Everyone thinks you are a marvelously talented individual."

He purred and went back to pouring candy into and out of various carrying receptacles. Now and then he came upon a roll of Hot Tamales candy or extra-spicy peppermints, which he heralded with a vicious snarl, and which always ended up feeding her fireplace. They'd found out the funny way that Valtiel didn't like spicy candy much.

"Little do they know you almost opened a portal to hell when that guy came through on LSD.."

He grumbled happily to himself.

"He probably wouldn't have noticed the difference if you had..."

Her cell phone began to ring and Heather blinked, setting down the paper to pick up the device. It was one of her usual clients. She talked with them at length for awhile before putting down the phone and looking back to Valtiel. He was spending more and more time visibly in the real world, and Heather was starting to get used to his company. Monster? Perhaps. Attendant to a violent demonic god? Perhaps. Cat? Heather smiled. Whatever else the metatron might have been, he was also _hers_.

"You have your own internet meme," she told him. "And you've gotten me two movie art contracts. How does that feel?"

He unwrapped a Kit-Kat, wrapped the whole length of his long cord-like black tongue around it, and snatched it up into his mouth like lightning. Happy chewing snorting noises ensued.

"I thought as much," she laughed. "Carry on."

* * *

Weeks became months.

So about James Sunderland... I keep an eye on the police reports going into and out of Silent Hill- I have a friend in the police force. She was a friend of my father's. Anyway, this man wasn't there for the same reasons I was. Silent Hill drew him in because he was... _troubled_, and had been to the town frequently enough that it... knew him. He won't talk to me much- won't talk to anyone. He managed to move on, but just barely. He had to flee the area. We haven't spoken much since. I only check on him once every year or so."

"Those monsters..." Alex murmured hoarsely, "they were definitely real. I'm not crazy. And plenty of people have seen then other than me."

"Reality in Silent Hill is a little subjective," Heather reminded him. "The monsters probably weren't real in the sense that they require our minds, our guilt, to give them shape. Even the otherworld changes slightly depending on who's in it, and who's looking. People who are innocent and guiltless are often unable to see the monsters at all. But the monsters are definitely not hallucinations. They can really kill us. And for the time we're held captive by Silent Hill, they're as real as it gets. According to James, a number of monsters were identical to both he and Angela. Hallucinations don't work like that."

"What about you?" he asked. "You were with Douglass and Vincent for part of your journey. What did they see?"

Heather laughed. "My experience was the worst. I'm the only one who's ever left Silent Hill wondering, did I run through the town shooting random people on the street? See Vincent didn't see them as monsters. Maybe. He liked head games. And it took a lot of work with my psychiatrist before I worked out that Vincent and the Order viewed the otherworld as a precursor to Paradise. So what Vincent saw might have been as hallucinated as what I saw; he just got a prettier version. Once I'd stabilized I bit, I checked with a friend in the police force. No mass killings reported. No missing tourists. Thank god."

Alex nodded. "The monsters I saw were definitely different from the ones you described. But in some places, there are like... threads... that connect them. Like you talked about nurses, and Mannequins. I saw the nurses, and they behaved almost identically. But mine didn't have faces." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You know I was less afraid of them than I am currently afraid of myself."

Heather jumped and looked at him with wide eyes. It suddenly occurred to her that she would rather face down a Goddess than think about her own sanity. That was pretty profound.

"Nothing made sense there!" he muttered in frustration. "My memories started contradicting. I... I believe I am-... I have memories of being in the army, and my marksmanship and knowledge of weaponry suggests that I really was. But I... I also have reason to believe that was actually in an asylum somewhere. My father said the dog tags I carry were his, not mine. And our first names both start with the letter 'A.' I can't seem to track indisputable proof that I was at either place! The faces and names I remember all run together. It's driving me crazy. At this point I don't even think I'd mind knowing I'd been in the asylum, if I could _prove_ it. But I can't.

Heather took a long, slow breath. "You need to hear more about James," she told him. "Reality _bends_ in Silent Hill. Clearly. There's a fog and a hell world both there, and they exist simultaneously with the real world. Space stops being linear. The laws of physics go crazy. So if you can accept the existence of multiple realities... than you should be able to entertain the idea that you have multiple simultaneous pasts. "

He looked up at her, eyes wide.

"You don't have to _pick_ which past is the real one. Silent Hill left you with memories of both; it would have forced you to move past any memories that were blatantly false. You wouldn't have come out on the other side questioning where you'd been."

"If you want, I can recommend to you a book about how a supernaturally sensitive person can become split in half as a result of a traumatic experience. My take is that one very vital part of Alex joined the military... and another very vital part of Alex was institutionalized... when Silent Hill called you back, it reunited both parts by making you deal with Joshua's death. "

He hesitated, thinking about this. Then he laughed, because he knew she was simultaneously correct and hypocritical. "So your advice is to keep calm and not worry about it?" he asked her, amused. "And to stop doubting myself?"

She smiled slightly. She knew how hard it was. "Yeah," she agreed. "But also to educate yourself. In Silent Hill it is almost impossible to know the difference between goals and red herrings. It tests you to get to one, and it punishes you for trying to get to the other; but from our perspective, which is which? A book on psychology and another on psychic phenomena can go a long way in helping you figure out the difference. Anyway, almost all of us see representations of ourselves in Silent Hill. We _all _question our sanity, so we all see hints here and there that we're insane."

Silence stretched for a long while. "Will it drag me back if I go crazy?" he asked at long last.

Heather blinked at the honest question, and wasn't sure what to answer. After a moment, she shrugged. "I almost lost it before I found my shrink," she confessed. "And it was grabbing me back. But I was _in_ Silent Hill at the time. And I'm the reincarnation of Alessa Gillespie. For you? I've no idea. Though if you can tell the difference between a test and a punishment, you might be able to give it the slip and put yourself back on the right track if it starts grabbing for your ankles.

"So you said James had a similar experience."

"... Some splittings aren't always negative. Sometimes they represent when we slough off a dead part of ourselves, and grow beyond it. In James's case, I have a feeling he simultaneously went on to live a normal life _and_ drove his car into a lake and drowned. The important factor is that the _living_ part, the entirety of the soul, escaped and survived. As for me, the Memory of Alessa still haunts Silent Hill. Part of her is all over the place, ingrained in its seam work. But it has no soul. And it's not part of me."

Alex nodded. He wasn't sure how that could work, but if he deliberately forced himself not to think about it, it made a bizarre sort of sense. Something had been bothering him for awhile- or not bothering him, but he wanted to get a clarification. "Heather... Everyone called to Silent Hill... They're called there to _do_ something, aren't they? To learn a lesson. Or to get over something that torments them. Or in your case, to settle business with the cult. And it releases them only when their business is finished."

"Seems so," she answered, going to procure some early Christmas cookies for both of them. "These aren't in season, you'll have to help me hide them by eating them."

He smirked and took a few.

"What did James Sunderland do?"

"He had smothered his wife when she was critically ill, and I got the impression he had loved her a lot. He became delusional, and probably came to Silent Hill- not to look for her- but to kill himself in the town she'd always wanted to return to. Silent Hill didn't let him go until he'd made two decisions: whether to accept her death, and whether to forgive himself for it."

"... So Henry was tied up in the cult, as was Eileen. And Henry and Travis were both called to save someone. Anything they 'dealt' with was incidental. And you were tied up with the cult, too... Does that mean Silent Hill called me to deal with Joshua and my parents?"

Heather considered him. "I don't know enough yet," Heather confessed, "But to me it doesn't sound right. If you had been called to deal with Joshua, it would have been immediately after his death. It should have happened as soon as reality split for you, not some arbitrary amount of time later. This is going to sound creepy and offend your sense of justice, but it sounds like Silent Hill let you resolve things with your family as a _reward_ for you accomplishing some other task. Alex, is it possible it called you in to _save_ someone? You told me the cultists had just found out that Joshua's death wasn't enough to appease the God, and that they'd started torturing and killing everyone in Shepard's Glenn. It would have been someone innocent."

Alex straightened and looked around, thinking. "Elle..."

Heather was surprised by the sharp pain that metaphorically stabbed her in the gut at that moment. She tried not to let it show on her face. "A girl?" she asked, and she was relieved her voice didn't crack.

"Yeah, Elle Holloway... We were friends as kids."

Heather lifted a brow. "A Holloway?"

"She had nothing to do with the cult," he explained. "We were all kept from it. Her mother sacrificed her sister... like my parents were supposed to sacrifice me."

"That would do it..." she decided, still feeling a pain in her stomach.

"We were best friends as kids." He chuckled. "We got into all the craziest situations. My family... well I was the kid they'd chosen to give up. So Elle was the only family I really had. The parents never approved... I guess now I know why. They'd've preferred it if she'd been friends with Joshua. Hold on, I think I have a picture of her."

He fished in his wallet and drew out a picture of a blonde girl about his own age, and showed it to her. Heather tried not to grimace when she spied that the back had been signed with the cute penmanship of a girl, and prefaced with "XOXO," the usual shorthand for 'kisses and hugs.'

"This is Elle," he was saying. "She was the only person who came out of Silent Hill with me... if I was called for any other reason... maybe it was to get _her_ out in one piece."

She wanted this line of conversation to end. "So you're not entirely like James. You're a little like my father. Where is she now?"

"She lives with her father," he explained. "I should check up on her. I haven't called her in weeks. She's probably worried."

Heather nodded quietly. "Why don't you go do that," she suggested. "It's about time for us to head out for the day. I'm going to go back to the house. I just realized I forgot something that that I'll need at the studio."

He nodded, pulled out a cell phone, paid his bill, and moved to go make his phone call. Heather paid her share of the meal and then got in her car and headed home.

* * *

She moved past Halloween decorations; her yard was veritably exploding with them. At the front door she calmly flicked through her keys, picked out the one for the front door, and slid it into the lock. When the door open she stepped inside, hung up her coat, settled her purse down, closed the door behind her, and put away her scarf.

She stood in the atrium for a bit, marveling at the mundane problem that had suddenly assaulted her often supernatural life. She stood there- feeling it, appreciating it, steeping in the sheer normality of what she felt. For once she wasn't sad because of depression or her father's death or the monsters that chased her. For once she wasn't angry because some religious fanatic was out to destroy her life. For once her malaise was completely natural, completely normal, completely human, completely female.

It occurred to her that she should probably call up her therapist before she did something goofy and this snowballed into a bigger issue.

... Maybe in an hour or so. For the moment, she walked upstairs, entered her bedroom, climbed into bed, pulled the blankets around her, and closed her eyes. A minute later, a Boogieman was climbing down her wall and headboard, easing his arms about her pillow and shoulders, hugging close to her and resting his chin on her arm.

Heather sighed gratefully. "Can you wake me up in an hour?" she asked. "I'm not quite ready to go back out there yet."

He purred, and tilted his head back. She felt real lips brush her cheek.

"I've been wondering," she told him. "Thanksgiving's is the last Thursday of the month. How badly would I offend the natural order of things if I included you in a prayer of things I'm thankful for? Are we talking like that it'll rain frogs for a few days as punishment, or is this more of a 'the rivers will run red' type of thing? For praying to a possibly real omni-benevolent deity for the existence a monstrous no-face angel made by a possibly real but definitely dangerous demonic sun goddess who likes torturing people and painting the hallways with entrails. Or do gods get upset by these types of things?"

Her eyes weren't open. She didn't see the way he lifted his head and 'looked' at her, the creases of his expression suggesting that he was taken aback by her words. He 'looked' about the room and shifted his hold around her a bit. The Seal of the Metatron stood out clearly on his upward facing shoulder, almost luminescent. After a moment, he brushed a hand over her hair, and felt each strand keenly despite the physical buffer of his new leather gloves.

For a moment, there was silence.

"I love you, my guardian angel," she murmured, still emotionally exhausted from her breakfast with Alex, and well on her way to sleep. "Keep me safe..."

His head slowly, smoothly, tilted to the side. He did not twitch or shudder or convulse. For a long moment, he was very, very still, contemplating the sleeping girl in his arms, considering her sadness, her loneliness. He reached out slowly to caress her hair again. Then a broken noise leaked from his throat. He leaned backwards and looked around, shaking, shuddering, convulsing. His gaze settled on her again.

He tightened his arms about her, picking her up into his embrace, smothering her into his chest, tucking her as close to his breast, his heart, the center of himself, as he possibly could. Heather stirred a little bit, but he purred to her thickly, heavily, and she drifted quickly back to sleep.

Heather woke up an hour later to her alarm clock. She rolled over to turn it off, and her arm fell across something slimy. Blinking back sleep, she took a second look at what was on her pillow. She found it to be a colony of freshly killed mice, arranged in a neat little circle.

Scream.


	14. Michael Kaufmann 2.0

"Doctor Kaufmann?"

He gestured for her to sit and she did so, settling her portfolio down to the left side of her chair. Heather had never gotten into the habit of wearing a purse; it was her habit to stuff her personal effects like her keys and wallet into her pockets, and when she had anything bigger than that to carry, she would bring a portfolio or messenger bag. "Good morning, Cheryl," he greeted her warmly.

She paused and eyed him a moment before looking down almost guiltily. "Heather," she corrected.

Kaufmann blinked, leaning forward curiously. The two gazed at one another for a moment before he nodded. "You're ready to talk to me," he noted softly.

Heather winced. "I've never missed an appointment with you," she protested almost defensively.

Kaufmann smiled at her warmly. "Do I sound upset or angry to you?"

She frowned.

"You are a very independent and strong woman, Heather Mason. I knew you would call on me if you needed me; and that I ought not to intrude on your privacy before then. My general conclusion was that you were improving rapidly; So I stepped out of your way."

She hesitated. "You asked about my hair when I dyed it..." she noted. "And the haunted house. And I changed the subject both times."

He nodded. "I mostly just watched for signs that the improvement was genuine, instead of an unhealthy emotional high like some patients feel if they've resigned themselves. I saw no evidence that this was the case. So. What would you like to talk about today?"

Heather shifted in her seat but didn't say anything.

He nodded sympathetically. "Why don't you pick just one thing then. Whatever's easiest."

She smirked almost ironically. "The thing I thought would be easiest... isn't," she said as if a dawning realization was coming over her. "I thought the main reason I came today was... was to bring you up to speed... Because I'm jealous of someone. I've never even met her. And I wanted to talk about it."

The doctor tilted his head to the side and listened patiently as she gathered her thoughts.

"But now that I'm sitting here... I'm surprised it isn't the first thing I want to talk about. I guess... There are a couple things... I met another Silent Hill survivor. He's staying in Daybrook."

That got Kaufmann's attention. He hadn't met any of the other 'survivors' that Heather had mentioned meeting, and she had protected their privacy, to the point where they might as well not have existed. "I'd like to meet him," Kaufmann told her.

"He won't come here."

The doctor hesitated. "I could meet you both for lunch," he said slowly.

"He might... He might not be willing to talk to you. I'd have to ask him."

The doctor nodded. "I could promise not to discuss his experiences. I just wish to meet him."

"I'll ask him. He and I... we're talking about... This isn't the thing I want to talk to you about first, actually."

It was only because he was Doctor Michael Kaufmann, Heather's very unusual and accepting therapist, that he was able to nod and put the issue aside. She smiled inwardly. Any of her pass doctors would have nailed her to a wall in an instant asking questions. And somehow everything would have turned Freudian. It would have been impossible to have any real discussion about the people in her life.

She reached over to her travel portfolio and pulled out a heavy stack of loose-leaf sketches, made on a wide variety of paper from thick watercolor leaves to old napkins. She reached over and sat them down on the room's coffee table and spread them out laterally. Kaufmann blinked in surprise, reaching down to push them about and peer through them.

His eyes lifted to Heather. "You only ever mentioned two visits," he said quietly.

She smirked. "You can tell this is more important than boy troubles," she observed. "You never fail to amaze me."

Kaufmann gazed at her for a long moment before starting to look through all of her sketches. "This has been going on since September?"

"Yeah. I met Alex after his second visit. That's... when I stopped talking to you about either of the the big changes in my life lately." She hesitated. "I should have mentioned Alex to you earlier... but I kept hoping I could convince him to come talk to you in person. And this..."

She gestured to the drawings. "Well I mean if I'm crazy at least my hallucinations are friendly..."

He picked up one of the sketches, of Valtiel meticulously stirring peanut butter cookie batter. He looked from it up to her. "Heather I know you say that because you are trying to make yourself feel better. But you do not have to justify your actions or what you see to me or anyone else. You are far too grounded in reality to be Schizophrenic. You have gone through all the trauma necessary to begin hallucinating ghosts; but you display none of the other symptoms."

Heather blinked in surprise. He turned the paper to face her.

"This is your monster?" he asked. "The same one that was once charged with ensuring the birth of the cult god? The same one the cult called 'Metatron'? An angel they worship?"

Heather nodded hesitantly.

"The same 'actor' they talk about in the papers, who really brought your haunted house to life? That people /other/ than you have seen?"

She froze.

He held her gaze.

"Do-... You don't... You don't think I hallucinate..." she said tightly.

"Heather?" he frowned worriedly.

"You called me 'troubled'. D.. do you think... Do you believe I made it all up? For attention? Do you think I /invented/ it all and then hired an actor?" Heather might have left. She might have fled that very second if Kaufmann hadn't grabbed her arms and given her a surprising shake. The gesture was utterly informal and unprofessional, and it startled her.

"Heather Mason," he enunciated sharply. "I have been your confident for two years. I am not trying to damn you!" She stared at him, not understanding. His face softened somewhat. He looked at her like a man would look at his own child, at something unbelievably precious to him. "I am trying to help you," he said at last, his grasp loosening. "I'm sorry."

Heather sat back, looking from him to her sketches, a little stunned. Kaufmann composed himself, holding her gaze for a bit before looking down at her sketches. A long moment of silence passed.

"Did I just have a panic attack?" Heather asked quietly.

He nodded. "Though, I might have just had one too," he said with a chuckle. "You have been written off by many people in your life, Heather Mason. It may be your tendency to assume that new people will write you off as well. Even people whom you truly believe love you."

Heather thought about a few episodes over the last few months, the most frightening of which happened the day she decided to bathe the monstrous angel.

"What truly plagues you, Heather Mason, we will unravel softly. Not with baseless accusations. A thousand people saw your wall climber, and this is the first time another survivor has been on hand to talk to. I hope to meet them both.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Valtiel came out for Halloween, but he seemed to understand he was hiding in plain sight. And Alex..." She hesitated. "I want you to meet them," she realized quietly. "I want to give you proof."

"So. This is the creature they call 'Metatron.' "

Heather nodded slowly. "He lives with me. He curls up to sleep on my bed most nights. I haven't nightmared in two months. I sleep soundly every night."

He sat back and looked to her. "Tell me everything."

* * *

Lisa Graland was the receptionist. She rescheduled all of the doctor's appointments for the day, with the exception of one critical case at four in the evening. Heather and the doctor took lunch together, and otherwise made up for the time they had lost over the last two months.

She confessed everything to him. She had never been so open and honest with as much new information all in one sitting. Even when she had first told the doctor her story of Silent Hill, she had done so carefully, slowly, one revelation at a time. Suddenly she was telling him every detail of both the metatron and Alex Shepard, everything she had experienced and learned about both since their appearance in her life.

When the evening grew late, and after Kaufmann had attended to his second appointment, he invited her out for dinner. There, he did much of the talking. And by that time, they were on to the topic of Elle Holloway.

It was late and well past sundown when they finished. Kaufmann looked up at the black skies worriedly before looking back to Heather. "Will you be alright driving home on your own?" he asked her.

Heather looked around, breathing in the chill night air. She was in Silent Hill, and it was way past nightfall, and yet not a single part of her felt remotely threatened. "I'll be fine," she decided.

"Even with the time being what it is?"

She nodded.

"I'll walk you to your car."

The parking lot was dimly lit by warm, incandescent bulbs. Heather gave her therapist a tight hug. He returned it and asked her to be safe. She promised she would and then slipped into her car and started the ignition. As she pulled away, Kaufmann watched her, lost in thought.

He heard something behind him. A dog, perhaps? It snorted and growled slightly- not exactly a threatening growl, but perhaps a warning not to do anything suspicious. Kaufmann blinked and looked around. He saw nothing at ground level. He lifted his head and in his peripheral vision caught the edge of something moving. There, high up in the shadows above the light, pressed up against the brick wall of the diner, something was moving.

Kaufmann blinked, taken aback. It writhed and spasmed and twitched, limbs constantly moving, body constantly shifting. It was watching him, he had no doubt. And as he stood there, glued to the concrete, it slowly made its way down the wall and into the light.

Like a spider. Like a Japanese climbing ghost. An unbelievably horrifying, utterly surreal creature. It climbed down the wall without hand or footholds, its palms and toes pressed flat against the bricks, fingers splayed and wriggling. It had a way of moving its arms that was almost mime-like, gestural and over the top.

Gestural was the word. Its fingers were fused together like the hands of a Dr. Seuss character. It constantly seemed to be grabbing at the air. Its arms moved in a way that was neither smooth nor entirely purposeful, but exaggerated and almost demonstrative, with the wrists cocked and phalanges straining, as if every tendon was always pulled as tight as possible, and no muscle ever relaxed for an instant.

"Oh my god," Kaufmann murmured, taking a slow step backward.

The creature growled, snorted, rumbled, 'peering' eyelessly at him. It was terrifying. A presence floated about it. The street lights were dimming in response to it. Nearby, field mice and rats scuttled away from the building, and a dog leashed at a nearby home was yelping.

"Oh my god," he repeated weakly, horrified. His knees trembled, then caved. He found himself bowed before it, cowering in its presence, in its clear and indisputable if monstrous divinity, in its utter right to end his life- should it so choose- at that very instant.

A thought—a shred of rationality—forced it's way through his terror.

It did not have this kind of power over Heather Mason.

What had he done wrong?

The bricks of the building began to rot. Paint peeled upward from signs and wood plaques, floating upward into the sky. Chain links and iron spears pierced upward through the earth. The sky went red and foggy. The asphalt dripped away like so much melted tar, leaving him standing on a massive spiked bridge in the center of an unholy, rotten metropolis of blood and rust.

Kaufmann looked around, shaking violently. Memory was fading. Instinct was dominating. The past, present, future, were dissolving away into sludge He didn't know why he was her; there was no existence outside of this horrorscape. All that remained was the knowledge that he was caged and looking for something and-and—!

Metatron growled. An image burst through his mind, of Heather Mason, of the warm hug she had given him before departing.

"I'm trying to help!" he gasped, lifting his head, looking up at the angel, the god, the monster that could and would destroy him. The act of looking at it took everything left in him. He was pretty sure he voided himself as he did so. "I'm trying to help her!" he begged. "She came to me! No one else would listen to her! No one else would let her bare her soul, her pain!"

It twitched, snarling.

He tried to struggle to his feet, pleading with it. "I'm trying to help her! She needs someone to listen, no matter what she has to say. She needs someone to help her!"

A moving gear got in its way. It grabbed the object and tore downwards. A construct the size of an inner city crane buckled in response, careening before toppling over, rupturing and sending horrific little creatures skittering wildly over the ground. Kaufmann shuddered.

He took a shaky step towards it. He had no idea what he was doing; he didn't even know if this was the right sort of thing to say. "I won't hurt her," he begged. "That's my job! I won't let her break, not while I can help-! I would never hurt her... she needs me!"

He saw one of Valtiel's feature, only one, differently from Heather Mason. He saw the center mouth functional. It was incredibly wide, stretching from nonexistent ear to nonexistent ear, and filled with rows of densely packed needle-like teeth. This mouth parted, teeth baring in viciously unpleasant way. The thing, the god, Lobsel Vith, advanced on him.

Kaufmann wailed and stumbled backwards. Something heavy was on the ground just beside him, and he tripped on it, falling backwards. He landed with a startled exclamation of panic and pain, and was just about to worm onto his stomach and bolt for his life when he saw what it was he had tripped on.

It was him.

It was his body.

It was his corpse. Staring lifeless up at the ceiling, raked by the claws of some otherworld monster, each wound stuffed with white flowers.

White Claudia.

Dhalia Gillespie.

Samael.

Lisa.

All color drained from his face. He looked up at the metatron, whom had moved unnaturally quickly and was now standing before him, fingers clawlike, mouth pressed into a thin line. He recoiled not from it, but from himself. A thousand memories floated up unbidden in the back of his mind, of what he had been, of what kind of monster he had... He vomited over the ground, scrambling away from his own corpse. Then he vomited again, and again. What came up was the meal he had just eaten with Heather Mason.

Heather Mason.

"I'm dead?" he whispered, looking weakly up at the monstrous being.

Metatron did not so much as budge. Kaufmann stared at it for a long moment, pain, anguish, disbelief, self-loathing washing over his face. Then he swallowed hard, and pushed himself weakly into a sitting position.

"Please," he whispered. "Let me help her while I can. L-let... Let me live as this man while I can."

The metatron growled.

"Please," he begged it, not knowing if it cared for Heather or for any human, "Let me earn some small redemption in this form. Let me repay my debts. Let Lisa live a few years without drugs or suffering. Let me help Heather Mason. I haven't hurt her yet. I haven't let her break."

Did it care? It watched him silently, and he felt panic building up in him again, wiping out thought and identity. He shuddered at how alien it was, not just in form, but in essence, in mind. An insane idea occurred to him, drudged up painfully from his memories, from the depths of Heather's own therapy. Desperately he thought of the pictures Heather had shown him, focusing as hard as he could on the images of the creature baking cookies.

Lobsel-Vith gave a profuse shudder. It looked over its left shoulder, and then it's right. Slowly, amazingly, two shapes fanned out behind it. Two long, golden wings, patterned like a hawk's, subdued in color, almost natural, spread out for meters and meters in each direction, a massive wingspan that filled the bridge from side to side.

"I won't I-I'm dead... I'm dead... I won't hurt her- even if it destroys me! I won't! I _won't_! I swear it! By anything left in me worth preserving I swear it!"

The Yellow God looked at its newest features quietly a very long moment, and then turned its gaze back to the 'man' cowering before it. Kaufmann was deteriorating rapidly. His mind was lapsing into nonsense. He held onto his mental images of the pictures as if they were lifelines, anchors, but even the grasp was becoming shaky. He could feel something terrible beneath him, swallowing him up, changing everything about him, from the way he thought about Lisa Garland, to the simple manner in which he held his facial features. His _face_ was changing! He screamed in desperate agony.

A firm hand grasped his arm. There was a rush of wind.

When he opened his eyes, he was collapsed on the cold cement of the diner parking lot. He probably should have gotten up before a car ran him over... But for a good thirty minutes, he curled up on himself and cried.


	15. Correspondance

"Henry & Eileen,

My fondest regards to you both. Henry, I have a client in New York who is looking for a photographer and I showed him your portfolio. I'm sending you his info. Give him a call if it looks interesting. How are the kids?

Our club has a new member named Alex Shepard. He's staying in Daybrook for awhile while I walk him through the aftermath. There's something else I've been keeping from you because I didn't want to worry you.

I've told you a lot about my therapist, but I never mentioned another reason why I needed him so badly. I'd begun to nosedive into a depression and as a result I was starting to experience supernatural problems again. My therapist pulled me out of it. But a fragment seems to still be haunting me.

I hate to open healing wounds. But I was hoping to learn anything you might know about the Sect of Valtiel. It may be important.

Yours Truly,  
Heather Mason"

* * *

"Dearest Heather,

Sometimes you say a lot just by being silent. Before you were introduced to Dr. Kaufmann, Henry and I were seriously considering driving down to Daybrook to fetch you. We could tell something was wrong. How is Douglass? You should bring Alex to visit us for a week, if he can manage the trip. How is he holding up?

We've enclosed photocopies of all the documents we collected while dealing with Walter Sullivan, as well as a notes we took after the fact. Hopefully they will be of use to you.

You know we are hardier than we look. We aren't James Sunderland. Remember that you can talk to us about anything. You don't need to be vague and you don't need to pull punches. Please tell us what is going on. Please tell us what 'fragment' is haunting you.

Our Love,

Eileen"

* * *

"Henry & Eileen,

Thank you for your letter. Douglass is fine; he's the one who tracked down Dr. Kaufmann for me in the first place. He still hasn't retired, though I've asked him to do so repeatedly. You know how he is; always needs to keep busy. His knee has been hurting him recently, and I've been prodding him to seek medical advice.

I'll ask Alex about the trip and get back to you. He's holding up well enough. He shares more similarities with James than he does with either of you, but I think he would benefit greatly from a trip. You're sure we won't be imposing?

Yours Truly,

Heather Mason."

* * *

"Dearest Heather,

We would welcome a visit. We have a new guest room and two pull out beds in the family and living rooms. We'd love to board you for a week. It's been awhile since we've seen you. The snow is just perfect for skiing right now, and the lake will be primed for ice skating soon.

Heather, please talk to us about what you've been seeing.

Our Love,

Eileen."

* * *

"Henry & Eileen,

I know you're both busy with work and I recently got two big contracts. I know a friend who is heading up to visit the big Ice Show. I think I'll send Alex to you through them. You can pick him up at the city airport, right? How does the 27th sound? Let me know if the roads or weather get too bad for travel. Do you have recommendations for a hotel in the area in case the roads are blocked for a day or two?

Yours Truly,

Heather Mason."

* * *

"Dearest Heather,

You should visit us too, Heather. You can work up at the cottage if you need to. You haven't seen the kids since Mica was a baby. Please talk to us.

Our Love,

Eileen."

* * *

Heather ran her fingers through her hair, streaking it with blue paint. Her brows were creased in anxious concern and she had her head tilted back so she could look up at the ceiling.

She was watching a clearly agitated Valtiel, who was climbing around her studio rafters as if possessed He writhed and twitched, shaking and snarling. His movements were fast and harsh. He'd already dislodged a light fixture and sent it crashing to the ground in a shower of glass and sparks. Several canvases had been torn asunder, and their tattered carcasses were strewn about the floor. He'd damaged, knocked over, or scuffed several other paintings in his wild thrashing.

"What's wrong with you?" she murmured quietly to herself. There were dark circles under her eyes. Valtiel had disappeared the evening she'd met with Kaufmann three days ago. Which meant Heather hadn't really slept properly in thirty-six hours.

Speaking of the good doctor: Lisa Garland had called her to let her know the man had come down with a bad head cold, and would be out of the office for several days. To top it all off, Alex was now talking almost nonstop about his childhood escapades. Every time she heard the name 'Elle Holloway,' Heather's insides twisted. After a few days of this, her intestines felt tied up in a fairly convoluted sailor's knot.

He suddenly gave a primal roar and jumped viciously at a ventilation shaft, shrieking and tearing at it. His muscles bulged and the aluminum tore in half as if it were naught but paper. Valtiel's ability to claw things seemed as surreal as his ability to climb walls; he'd left thick brutal slashes in the metal, yet his leather gloves remained undamaged.

"Valtiel!" she cried desperately. She'd been calling his name since he arrived, but it had yet to calm him. "What's wrong? What's wrong!"

He tore the aluminum into shreds. Part of it melted under his hands, other parts grew spikes or burst into showers of shrapnel. Then with a roar he tore much of the metal free and hurled it against the far side of the room. It slammed into one of her paintings, tearing open the canvas and pinning the wooden frame to the wall.

She cringed. He was beyond hearing her. But he was currently _present_. He was there, as he hadn't been for three days previously. It was true that her voice seemed helpless to penetrate his rage. On the other hand, Valtiel hadn't directed any violence her way, and the weather had turned neither foggy nor bloody. He wasn't angry with _her_. He must have been drawn to her. So there had to be some way to reach him.

Heather looked away from him, casting her eyes around the studio. She looked at various portraits and paintings of flowers or monsters. Her eyes roved over charcoals, pencils, paintbrushes... Below the canvas Valtiel had just butchered were buckets of housepaint. Heather had been doing something a little different- an abstract experiment with bright, high-saturated colors. A large bucket of red paint caught her eye. With a sudden burst of inspiration she hurried over to it, pried the lid open, and peered at the contents.

Was she really going to do this?

Would it help?

Fuck it.

She grabbed a wide paintbrush and stabbed it into the red paint almost vindictively, and then frantically splattered it over the floor of her studio.

Hurry, hurry, hurry. This was something she'd seen a million times; she knew exactly how to paint it. The creature above her raged and roared, and she cringed as he tore at some things and demolished others. The sounds of shrieking metal, of ripping canvas, of snapping wood echoed around her.

Heather inscribed a large red triangle inside a massive circle. She painted in runes and sigils, covering her floor in the strange markings. Somewhere above her, Metatron was panting heavily, snorting, hissing, growling low in his throat. He'd stopped throwing things, stopped attacking things. She whispered a muttered prayer to a far more benevolent god, and kept painting.

When she was sure she had painted in every detail she set the paintbrush down slowly beside the bucket, and lifted her head up towards the ceiling. The metatron was almost completely occluded in darkness. He'd pushed himself up between the back of a light and some water piping for the roof. The only reason she could see him at all was because he was twitching violently- hard enough to to snap a normal human's bones.

Heather swallowed hard. Her shins were covered in fresh paint where she'd accidentally knelt over her painting once or twice. She glanced down at it to make sure it was perfect, and then looked back up at her Boogeyman.

She had painted the Seal of the Metatron.

"Valtiel," she whispered softly to the air, laying her fingers slowly against the still-wet symbol.

He convulsed, and then loosed a low, agonized whine. The sound of it was heartbreaking, anguished, terrifying. Something had happened. _He_ needed _her_ help.

"Valtiel," she repeated, as gently as she could. "Come here. Don't leave. Come to me."

The monster was still for a long time. Then he began to move, crawling slowly down from the light. He hesitated a moment, one hand outstretched towards a overhead beam. Then he whimpered and quickly began to scuttle over the ceiling, jumping down to the wall and then to the floor. He kept his belly pressed against the ground, and crawled up to her like a spider, like a bug, like a cowed dog.

Heather didn't move except to watch him. She waited, her fingers pressed against the red paint. He twitched, shook, shuddered, delayed. He paced a bit around the circle, whining, wailing.

"Valtiel. Metatron. Boogieman," she cooed softly. "Come here. Please come here."

He flattened against the ground. Then, slowly, as if terrified it might burn him, he placed one hand within the reach of the circle. A moment passed. He made an unhappy murmur and then slowly crawled up to her, covering himself in red paint as his smock dragged over the ground. He spidered up to where she was kneeling and whimpered as he touched her for the first time. Heather moved carefully, trying not to startle or upset him. She moved one hand from the paint at a time, lifting them to touch his shoulders and face.

The creature that was also a god gave a weak cry and then pushed his face into her stomach, burying himself in her lap. His arms clasped around her midsection and he trembled violently, hiding himself from the world.

Heather leaned down, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him to her. She rubbed his back and shoulders, like a parent might do for a child. Her hands were still damp with red paint, but she'd washed Valtiel's smock one before, and reasoned she could do so again.

"I'm here," Heather told him a little helplessly. She still didn't know what had happened, what had gone wrong. Why had Valtiel left her alone for three days? The angel had otherwise stuck to her like glue. He had watched over her every night since the day she'd met Alex Shepard. Sometimes he'd hang on the wall as he did so, other times he'd be half under the bed, and sometimes he'd just perch on her headboard. But he'd _never_ left her alone before.

Why was he so violent upon his reappearance? Why had he come to her, only to trash her studio? He seemed to need her. It was like he'd entered the studio in the desperate hope she would find some way to calm him down. She shook her head, filled with questions, lost for answers.

"I'm here," she whispered to him tenderly, reassuringly. Then she added: "I missed you."

He moaned into her embrace, and to her it seems he felt as helpless as she did. Or perhaps he was actually apologizing. Whichever it was, the sound of it tore at her and she hugged him to her more tightly. A long moment passed with him collapsed in her embrace, his nonexistent face pushed into her blouse, strong arms wrapped tightly about her waist, an occasional coo or whimper or groan making it past his lips. She held him all the while, rubbing his back, trying to be soothing. When he did finally move it was to lift his head out of her shirt and 'peer' up at her for a moment; then he raised a twitching, tensed, uncoordinated hand and brushed it apologetically over her face.

She nodded quietly, leaning her cheek into his gloved hand. His hand gestures steadied a little, became a little smoother and less tortured. She said nothing; not to forgive or admonish or thank. Her nod was sufficient. He traced her features with little coordination but much tenderness, 'watching' her face.

Valtiel seemed strangely exhausted. He stayed curled up against her lap until her knees were sore and exhausted from kneeling on the concrete for so long. When she tried to get up, he grasped at her waist and cried out unhappy. But Heather still needed to get up and stretch her legs. After some thought she wrapped her arms around his chest and carefully tried to pull himself to his feet. Here it was much clearer that he was drained. He could not stand on his own and so leaned heavily against her, one of his arms still draped about her shoulders.

To Heather it felt like he had just fought a very long and difficult battle, and needed to recover his strength. Which was an incredibly strange situation. Usually it was Heather who needed Valtiel's help, not vise versa. She had never seen the metatron in anything other than a perfect state of power. His sudden docile weakness left her feeling exposed and slightly cautious. He needed to rest. As she stood him up and coaxed him onward, she realized just how stained and dirty he was. Screw the red paint. He was filthy. He'd been to the Otherworld... and _something_ must have happened there...

Heather guided him a little clumsily (he was bigger than her) over to where her art supplies were arranged around many tables and shelves. Among them she had a green couch that she occasionally used during long work stints (She always preferred to make it home otherwise, even if the hour was late), and she eased Metatron off her shoulder and down onto its cushions. He clutched at her as she stooped to push his legs up onto the couch.

Heather untied her painting apron and, still splattered in red paint, settled down on the couch beside him, pushing him into the back cushions. He wrapped his arms about her instantaneously, clutching her greedily against him and nuzzling tenderly at her hair. Heather laughed softly.

"I haven't slept a wink since you vanished on me," she told him with an affectionate chuckle. He made a mournful sound. "You going to let me nap? Or are you going to vanish on me again?"

He held her crushingly close and began to purr for her.

* * *

Heather woke up seven hours later to the ringing of her cell phone. She lifted her head groggily, trying to recall where she was and how she'd gotten there. Her pillow wasn't exactly soft, but it was warm and supple all the same. She reached out for her phone but couldn't quite grasp it in time. The ringing stopped as the automated voicemail picked up. Heather yawned and was just about to roll over and forget the manner when she realized her pillow was breathing softly.

Heather usually fell asleep after Valtiel came in to watch over her, but to date she had never woken up with the metatron still present. So it was something of a surprise to find herself draped over top of the monstrous angel, his leathery face tucked into the crook of her shoulder, his arms wrapped loosely about her waist.

Was he sleeping? Couldn't be. She shifted a little and he mumbled in protest. No, not sleeping. But definitely resting. His breathing was slow and steady. He was relaxed. Calm. Content. What had happened to him? She lifted her head a little, so she could turn it and at least glimpse the edge of his 'face'. He lifted a hand and stroked automatically over her shoulder and arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked him. "You gave me quite a scare. What happened to you? What made you disappear like that?"

He didn't answer, of course, just kept stroking her shoulder. Whatever had upset him, he didn't seem inclined to worry about it now. She sighed because that didn't much reassure her.

"Cats," she mumbled. Then her phone started ringing again. She blinked and reached towards a nearby table where she seemed to have placed it several hours earlier. Valtiel's finger twitched. The phone stopped ringing. Heather paused, and then looked at her companion suspiciously. What was this about now? "Valtiel," she drawled disapprovingly. "Who is trying to call me?" He seemed to contemplate mustering the strength to growl at the phone. Then he just leaned his head back against the couch armrest, and the phone began to ring again, mid dial-tone.

Heather shook her head and reached over to grab the device. She sat up slowly, easing her legs off the side of the couch. The metatron stopped rubbing her shoulder and just kept that arm looped gently around her waist. Heather rubbed her face groggily, flipped open the phone, and lifted it up to her ear.

"Hello? This is Heather," she croaked.

"Don't hang up."

At the sound of his voice, Heather was seized by the sudden vicious urge to snap the phone shut. Only his words, which rattled their way up to her conscious mind before her subconscious could clamp down on them, stayed her hand. Heather took in a surprised breath at the sudden rush of panic she suddenly felt, and wasn't certain at its cause.

"Heather? This is Henry. Are you still there?"

"I..." She swallowed. The angel she was sitting against rubbed gently over her side. "Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Henry?"

"You've raised a mental block," he told her in a deadpan. "You're trying to avoid telling us something important."

Heather grimaced and leaned forward, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Are you still there?" he asked again.

She took a slow breath.

"Heather."

"Yeah," she murmured. "Do I do this often?"

"No. Not since you met Michael Kaufmann."

She nodded. "What's it this time?"

"Are you ready to hear it?" he queried. "Breathe."

She obeyed, trying to wake up a little more as she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. "I'm awake," she told him. "Sorry you woke me up."

"You've written five letters in which you've ignored Eileen's requests for you to talk to us, and you're doing everything in the book to avoid meeting up with us or letting us visit with you."

"What is she asking me to talk about...?"

"You mentioned something was haunting you and asked for information on the Sect of Valtiel. After that you closed up."

Heather opened her eyes. "Ah," she said after a moment, and then half turned in her seat, to look over at her couch's co-occupant. Valtiel was watching her, unmoving. He was very relaxed. "Yeah," she said softly. "That would probably do it."

"You know why it happened?"

Heather hesitated. "It's okay. I mean, I must have made it sound like I was in danger or something. But I don't think I am. Not _yet_ anyway. I'm okay."

"So what is going on?"

"I think I was worried about you judging me."

"I was operating under the impression that our relationship had progressed beyond that point."

Miss Mason couldn't help but smirk slightly. "Not this time," She told him. "This time you'll figure I've lost it."

She could almost visualize Henry shrugging. "Maybe you have. It shouldn't matter. We're in this 'club' together."

"You'll worry," she disagreed.

"I'm past the state of worrying. At this point there isn't much you can do to stop that; we're coming to visit Daybrook next week."

Heather blinked. Was it really that bad? Henry's voice rarely showed inflection, but his actions usually spoke much louder than his words. "Henry... I... " she rubbed her face. "I'm not in danger. Kaufmann says I'm recovering rapidly."

"I believe him. But tell me what's following you."

"You're going to have to remember my monsters. Do you recall 'The Metatron?'"

"The thing that never attacked you. It was responsible for the God you carried. You didn't want to talk about it much."

Valtiel twitched slightly. Heather glanced at him, then looked back out at nothing. How could she say this? Where could she even start? No matter where she began, Henry was going to think she was crazy. If she had raised a mental block, she now understood what had motivated it. Henry and Eileen were going to come out and visit her... and worry about her... and...

Where could she start?

... What did Henry and Eileen already guess...?

"What else did you hear in my voice?" she asked him suddenly.

He didn't start talking immediately as was his custom. He thought about the question for a long moment before answering. But when he finally started talking, his voice was as soft and mono-expressive as ever. "That you feared it more than anything else you'd encountered," he answered, which surprised and startled the crap out of her.

_What?_

"Because you couldn't tell if it was safe to feel grateful for it or not. Because you felt broken, or perhaps dirty that it had caused you relief. Especially when you contrasted it to James's Red Pyramid. Because it was looking after the God you carried, and you felt weak for interpreting that as kindness."

Heather stared at the wall, eyes wide, body tense. Beside her, Valtiel seemed equally surprised.

"Heather?"

She didn't blink.

"Heath-"

The metatron shrieked, lunging up to a sitting position, grabbing for the phone. Heather flinched away from his grasp and smacked at his arms. "Stop that!" she shouted at him. "For God's sake, Valtiel!" she scolded, earning a startled jump from the surprised metatron. "You sleep in the same _bed_ as me! And you think a _phone call_ is going to be the deciding factor in my decision making process here!? Chill the fuck out!" The metatron slumped backwards against the couch arm rest with a surprised squeak. Heather eyed him crossly.

"Heather?"

Valtiel stared at her in surprise. She tried to remain angry, but his innocently startled expression mollified her. Then suddenly he seemed to wince, and one of his hands moved to his chest, where a stain on his dirty smock seemed to be spreading. Heather blinked. Then her eyes widened.

"You're _hurt_..."

"Heather!" She lifted the receiver up to her ear, staring horrified at the fresh red pigment on her Boogieman's smock that had nothing whatsoever to do with house paint It was rare for Henry Townshend to lift his voice. She had to answer her before she succumbed to a monster-cuddling panic attack.

"I'm fine, Henry," she told him. "You heard my monster. Call me back in like fifteen minutes, he's bleeding."

"Heath-!"

She ended the phone call and tossed the cell off to the side.


	16. Yep, He's Hurt

Heather left the couch for a moment to quickly fetch a first aid kit. She'd only had to use it once previously, when she'd accidentally slit her palm open on a paper cutter. Man, that had given her the scare of her life. This was worse. Partially because she was in a much less clear-headed panic; partially because Valtiel wailed and yowled the moment she was out of arm's reach.

"Stay _put_!" she hollered back at him as she snatched up the kit and made her way back to the couch. He was trying to get to a kneeling position but seemed sapped for strength. How had he been throwing around huge sheets of metal hours earlier? Perhaps his current 'temperament' was simply more vulnerable? There was no way of knowing. He sagged back against the couch when she returned, and clutched at her clothing with his fingertips as she threw open the first aid kit and checked her supplies.

"Just- stop- stop fidgeting," she exclaimed, knowing full well that this was quite an impossible feet for the metatron, but wanting him to stop pulling open his wounds. Now that she was taking a good look at him, there was a chance most of the blood on him was actually his own. There were certainly enough tears in his smock. She stuffed her arms behind his back, feeling for the knot she'd put int he laces. But when she touched it he went very still, his fingers still grasping her clothing, as she struggled with the laces and then finally peeled the garment back from around his shoulders.

He'd had the stuffing kicked out of him. Blue veins stood out crisply beneath his pale and leathery skin, punctured here and there by ragged crimson lacerations. Violet and caramel bruises spread over his skin like colorful mold. How had she not noticed this? And why weren't-?

Slices began opening along his arms. Heather nearly had a "The Sky is Falling!" panic attack before she realized they weren't opening, they were _appearing_. He'd been hiding them. _That _was how she'd failed to notice. He'd masked them, presumably by a similar means for which he'd masked her ringing cellphone. She scowled disapprovingly at him, but then winced as her fingers brushed carefully over his many injuries. He didn't look like he'd been in a knife fight. He looked more like he'd been mauled by something, or maybe dragged himself over a field of sharp debris. What the hell could hurt her Valtiel? He'd just been ripping stuff apart with his bare hands!

She felt cold and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she quickly fished about for a needle and thread. "I really hope you can't get normal infections," she whispered as she pulled the implements close to him and pinched together one of the worst lacerations. "You've been letting me down all over the place with this 'getting injured' business lately. " He whined. She blinked and eyed him. "I'm certified in first aid," she couldn't help but tease, knowing his whine probably had to do with something different but morbidly amused by it all the same. "Don't be such a baby."

Henry called her twice over the next forty minutes, but she barely heard the phone ringing. Metatron slumped back into the couch silently, twitching only slightly as she tended to him. Even though she was pretty sure he couldn't get sick, she took the time to grab a basin of water and sponge some of the caked blood away anyway. It made it easier for her to see by, and it was hygienic. The majority of the injuries, she was able to simply bandage up with some gauze and padding. But there were at least five major lacerations she had to stitch shut, and the others had to be cleaned up before she could mend them. He didn't seem bothered by the pricking of the needle. After a time he looped his arm back around her waist and seemed to 'dim' in consciousness, resting, relaxing again.

Heather sighed. "How did this happen?" she wondered to herself, pulling his other arm in front of her and bandaging up a large gash on his bicep. His pulse was slow but strong under her fingertips. His chest rose and fell slowly now with each breath. There was very bad bruising about his lower right hand rib cage, and he twitched and shuddered and flinched away any time she touched it. A rib was likely either fractured or broken. The slightly audible wheeze he made when inhaling and exhaling was enough to be sure.

"The next time you get hurt, you come straight to me," she chastised him sternly. He grumbled. "Don't think I didn't notice you hid this from me. You let me sleep on top of you with bruises like these! I'm very cross with you. Who's going to take care of you if I don't?" He crooned softly, squeezing her middle.

She had just settled down next to him again and was washing the blood from her hands when the phone range a third time.

Heather glanced at it and considered not picking it up. Then she realized Henry would be on the next flight south, and she shouldn't push her luck. Only Henry would be calm and patient enough to call three times at perfect fifteen minute intervals in a potential emergency situation. She sighed and reached out, picking up the phone, flipping it open, and pressing it to her ear.

"Yo, I'm alive," She heralded her return to telecommunications.

"Heather, what the hell was that?" the soft voice answered her, the gentle emphasis in his sentence on the word 'was' rather than 'hell' or 'that'. In the background she could hear Eileen exclaim in terrified relief, "She picked up?"

"The cougar roar? That was my faceless metatron. He's draped over the couch next to me with an arm tucked around my midsection." Valtiel whined. "And his name is Valtiel."

A quiet, curious, incredulous pause followed. Then there was a rustling as the phone changed hands.

"Heather? Heather you've got to get out of there," Eileen warned her. "The thing the Order put in Walter Sullivan's head was called 'Valtiel,' their sect angel, their demigod."

Valtiel whined louder, his arm tightening about her middle.

"Oh god," Eileen muttered at the sound, because it brought back memories of the _Otherworld__. _"It preys on compassion, Heather, just like it prays on sin! That's the reason Walter Sullivan picked me. Because I was the only person who had ever been kind to him, he decided I was, 'Mother.' The Mother Reborn. And he started to get inside my _head_."

Heather didn't go stiff, but Valtiel wailed this time anyway, trying to sit up and grabbing for the phone. Heather batted at his arms. "Will you get _off_ of me!" she reprimanded him. "And sit down before you hurt yourself! Jesus Christ, you are insecure." He flopped back against the arm rest once more, looking miserable and confused. She rolled her eyes and then put her ear back to the phone. "The Mother Reborn? Been there," she grumbled, "Done that. And all they gave me was this free Boogieman."

"Heather!" Eileen gasped.

"Eileen, I love you and Henry both. Honest to god. If I was avoiding talking to you, it's only because I didn't want you to worry about me. Look I know what you're saying. I know I have to be careful. We're talking about something that's called, 'Attendant to God.' I'm checking pregnancy tests every week. And I'm not even sure undead god babies show up on pregnancy tests, but damn it I'm trying!"

Eileen and Henry were both silent. "And right now I'd probably totally rethinking my current Silent Hill survival strategy... if this particular faceless wall-climbing psychologically abstract monster... wasn't the sort to help me bake holiday sugar cookies. But once you've glazed angel wings in powder blue frosting together, It's all downhill from there. You're so far past crazy you've come back up on the other side again and become normal. There isn't any going back from here."

Henry slowly extracted the phone from a stunned Eileen's fingertips. He put an arm around her and lifted the phone back to his ear. "Are you okay?" he asked her after a long moment.

Heather took in a slow breath, and then let it out in a shuddering sigh. "Yeah, kinda," she told him. "He went missing for three days and showed up covered in lacerations, tearing apart the walls of my studio. I had to coax him down to the floor, and then he cuddled up howling in my lap. I just had my first sleep in days, I'm insanely jealous of Alex's childhood sweetheart, my therapist is out with a head cold, and now I'm trying very hard not to imagine what in the _Otherworld_ could possibly kick the stuffing out of a Boogieman. According to James, his Pyramid things were rather invulnerable. Valtiel can split metal in half with his bare hands."

"So..." a curious pause. "You think your Boogieman has gone AWOL?"

The thought had actually never occurred to Heather, who had been happy to let Silent Hill go on making as little sense in this instance as it ever had. She puzzled over it. And then a startling thought overcame her. What if the _Otherworld_ tried to reclaim Valtiel, not Heather? "Don't come to Daybrook," she said suddenly.

"But..."

"I'm playing with fire, Henry. I'm practically asking for something to happen. But I'm a mid-twenties young lady with very few responsibilities and a lot of fight left in me. You and Eileen have kids. Don't come to Daybrook. It won't help. If I get burned I can handle it. If Mica gets burned, we're all gonna lose it."

He was quiet, considering this. "If we don't come, and you walk off into the fog to save your variant of 'Little Walter,' we'll never forgive ourselves. And we'll never get to you in time. Heather, is it an 'it' or a 'he'? Walter Sullivan was originally a person... your monster crawled straight out of a dream."

"He has a favorite flavor of yogurt," she told Henry. "And likes Chinese Takeout and Kit-Kat bars."

"This is different," Henry thought aloud in his soft voice. "This is more than it should be. The _Otherworld_ was glimpses and moments, not continuous, not months. Something different has happened. Something we don't know about. Or _is_ happening." He was quiet a moment. "How do you know it's name?"

"He wrote it on my vanity mirror in lipstick the first day he showed up."

A pause. "You own lipstick?"

Heather pursed her lips in annoyed amusement. "Why yes, Henry. Unlike _some_ social recluses, there are galas, galleries, theater productions, and movie premiers that I must attend to. I also own a curling iron, perfume, high heels, and a sparkly dress I can't bend over in without showing off my frilly underwear. Any other questions?"

She could imagine him smiling. "Heather, we care too much about you not to come. Even James would climb on the next plane to Silent Hill if he knew this. If he thought there was a chance we might lose you."

"Don't paint targets on yourselves for something crazy I've voluntarily shouldered."

"Don't carry burdens alone."

Heather blew out a sigh. She lowered the phone for a second, looking at it reluctantly, and then gazing around her studio. Her torn canvasses were... _melting_ back together. Smudged and shattered paint was oozing back into its proper positions. She'd worry what someone had slipped in her drink if time wasn't so continuous. As Henry had said: something was different. She looked back at Valtiel who was breathing softly beside her. He had twitched now and then during the conversation, but had largely stopped complaining at every bit of insight. He was definitely watching her. His relaxed, uncreased 'expression' was decidedly trusting.

"How do you feel about a trip to Canada?" she asked him.

He rumbled.

"You'll behave? Towards my friends? This is an 'absolutely no hurting any of Heather's friends or otherwise semi-innocent people allowed' trip. There must be no openings of the _Otherworld_, no tipping off of cultists, no stretching of Silent Hill, no baby kidnapping... Do you think you can handle that kind of responsibility?"

Purr.

She eyed him doubtfully but lifted the phone to her ear. "I'll come to you. I'll bring Alex. We'll take the Wednesday flight, and the most obscure route. We'll stay a week or two. I think we need the holiday."

"Will your other new friend be coming?"

"I'll buy him a parka."

"Will we see him?"

"No idea."

"Can I photograph him?"

"Eheh... You can _try_. He might react badly; he's pretty camera shy. Absolutely don't do it without me."

A pause as Henry considered whether there was anything else he wanted to mention before the phone call ended.

"So, you're having boy troubles?"

"And here I went hoping that Eileen had been too stunned to catch that. Thanks Henry."

"We will arrange a dinner."

"Please don't. They've been friends since-"

"With candles."

"Oh boy."

"And music."

"I'm gonna hurl."

"See you Wednesday, Heather Mason. If you don't show, we'll be on the next flight to Silent Hill. Make sure to bring that sparkly dress. And the, ah, frilly underwear."

"No! No dinners! Henry! He doesn't-"

This time, _he_ ended the phone call on _her_. Heather pulled it back from her ear and stared at it indignantly. Her expression turned from disbelief to anger to resignation. She tossed it back onto the counter-top and sighed, covering her face with her hands. Metatron tugged at her hair, which she realized was still streaked with blue paint. "Everything's crazy," she complained. "What am I going to do with you? How am I going to explain you to Alex? What have I gotten myself into? What was able to hurt you?"

He purred and tugged at her arm now, trying to get her to lay down. Heather looked askance at him through the gaps between her fingers. She glanced at the clock on her phone. Another seven hours of sleep sounded good about now.


	17. Rude Suprises

When Heather woke up, Valtiel was absent, but the spot where he'd been was still warm. She decided this was a good sign, and stood up to crack her back and otherwise get out all the kinks that were one's due for snuggling up on half a narrow couch. Her studio bathroom let her work the blue paint out of her hair, but she needed a change of clothes and some food. As she was washing the last blue streaks out of her hair her phone began to ring, so she dried off her hands and hurried out to reach it.

"Morning sunshine."

Heather smirked and glanced at a clock. It was two in the afternoon. "Smart Alec_x_," she punned. "What's up?"

"It's Saturday. What's on the agenda?"

Heather yawned. "Already? Wow. Gotta become diurnal again. What are our options?"

Heather and Alex had taken to doing something exceptionally 'normal' for fun on Saturdays, to try and get him back into the feel of living again. They had already done things like see mindless action movies, go bowling, and visit the local art museum.

"Well, according to this napkin, we still have indoor mini golf, Christmas shopping, 'Getting Extremely Drunk And Having To Call a Taxi'- That one was yours, by the way-, swimming at the Rec center, ice skating, snowboarding, tobogganing, hiking, visiting a candy store, and going to a pet shop to look at kittens- also yours."

...Saturdays weren't the _only_ additional days they occasionally hung out. Heather had gotten a little anxious over the past three days and asked if he'd meet up with her for dinner at a local fish-and-chips. Harmless enough, right? "You kept the napkin? From the diner? How many drinks did I _have_?"

"Enough. But since you were the only one and we didn't ride in a taxi, I reasoned I couldn't cross that one off the list yet," he answered a little wryly.

Heather smacked her hand over her face. "I was having a rough week," she pled her innocence.

"I noticed," he laughed.

"Well. All those wintry activities suddenly reminds me. How do you feel about a trip to Canada?"

"What, today?"

"This Wednesday. To go visit with Henry and Eileen at their cottage for a week or two."

That sobered him. He was quiet a bit, but then seemed to reach a conclusion. "I think that means we're headed to the mall. We can do our Christmas shopping, buy snow pants and parkas, and oogle kittens all in one sitting." He thought a moment longer. "I _think_ I have my passport somewhere around here..."

Heather blinked. "Would your passport have stamps for any oversees deployments?" she asked curiously.

He chuckled mirthlessly. "It's brand new," he answered. "No such luck. Ran out of extra pages a few weeks before I came home." His voice lowered. "According to _one_ set of memories, anyway..."

"Rats. Well. See you in an hour?"

"I'll meet you at the north entrance."

Heather got ready to head out, straightening a few art supplies that had been set awry and wondering how she was going to clean up the Seal of the Metatron splattered in red all over her floor. One way or another she'd have to stop off at home to change her clothing. She was just about to turn off the studio lights and leave when she heard some shuffling and purring in one of the rear rooms.

Valtiel?

A bad feeling curdled in her gut. She headed towards the back rooms, which served mostly as storage for old paintings. The bad feeling grew as he gurgled happily, and she followed his noises into the far right storage room. The moment she opened the door, every muscle in her body clenched. She took in a sharp breath and stared up a very large painting she had simultaneously lacked the strength to destroy, but also never- ever- wanted to see again. It was one of the few paintings she had never shown Dr. Kaufmann or Douglas. She'd wrapped it in black velvet and stashed it as far back in her studio as she could possibly put it, and turned it away from the door. It was the sort of thing her mind raised blocks to avoid thinking about.

And there it was. He'd dug it out. It was facing the door. It was unveiled, with the studio lights shining down on it, in all its ugly glory.

The painting was of a woman in a long red dress. She was standing on an Aztec temple, and her dress became one with and flowed from the blood of sacrifices- sacrifices that Heather dare not look too closely at even in this moment; She did not want to see, did not want to remember what she had painted, did not want to be captured by a creative muse whose power she both treasured and feared, a muse that would surely compel her to paint in a new face.

The woman, the Goddess, although beautiful, was not painted as the singularly benevolent thing that Order saw her as. Here she had long black hair and Alessa's face, the way Claudia Wolfe had once imagined her. Here she had Alessa's often merciful, often predatory, always soulless eyes.

She was flanked on either side by numerous figures, chief among them two deified templar. One stood at her left, the other her right, each dressed in armor covered by long spotless robes. The one on her right hand side was dressed in golden armor and white robes. His helm was ovoid and lacking in visor, and wings of yellow feathers fanned out behind him. The templar on her left wore crimson armor and black robes. His helmet also lacked eyes but it was more pointed and triangular than ovoid. His wings were webbed like a bat's.

The red carried an enormous sacrificial knife, soaked in blood. The yellow carried an Ankh, stained crimson. Both were marked by the Seal of the Metatron emblazoned over their forward facing shoulder. Each was chained to the Goddess by tongues of flame. Lobsel Vith and Xuchibara, Valtiel and Samael, Yellow God and Red, angel and demon, healer and executioner, attendants to God, intermingled and muddled and instinct. It was a painting that struggled to make sense of an incomprehensible monstrosity, and yet in doing so provided perhaps the most faithful rendition of the cult's Sun God ideal that any human had ever put to canvas.

Her boogieman was kneeling reverently before it.

Heather swore at him and scrambled forward, scrabbling for the black velvet. "I had it covered for a reason!" she shouted, her voice shrill, almost panicked, almost sobbing. Valtiel nearly leaped out of his skin, spinning to face her. She barely noticed that his wounds were gone. "I had it covered for a reason!" she shrieked again, shaking as she was forced to retreat, to grab a ladder; the painting was too large for her to cover without a little help.

It only took her thirty seconds to grab the ladder and return to the room, but when she did the painting was tucked back in its hidden alcove, and the black covering was once more in place. At first, Valtiel could not be seen. Then when she collapsed sobbing to her knees, he climbed out of the shadows and scooted apologetically up against her.

She kept crying because she'd spotted fresh paint on the canvas, but her mind had already blotted out the faces again

* * *

"So."

"So?" Heather had largely composed herself. Fresh makeup covered the tear tracks from earlier.

"Wednesday is pretty short notice. What came up?"

"Well, Eileen and I are something like pen-pals. About once a week we send each other letters. Usually networking, sharing contacts, the like. We try to have an 'ordinary' relationship while at the same time sharing with one another whenever things get bad. For example, Eileen and Henry live off the cult's radar. So you and I will be taking a very circuitous route to get to them just to be safe."

"Circuitous?"

"We will also be traveling under fake IDs if you're okay with it."

He looked at her in surprise. She shrugged. "My dad and I hid from them for seventeen years. We knew tricks and had friends."

"Is it necessary?"

"They have kids."

"Oh," Alex said quietly, suddenly quite willing to go along with this plan if it meant he never had to see another Scarlett or Amnion.

"And they live in the middle of nowhere. To me, it is. Aside from James and Travis, you would be the only one I have ever told how to find them."

A silence passed as they walked down the department store aisle ways, looking at mens' winter outdoor wear.

"You haven't talked as much about Travis as you have the others," Alex noted after awhile. "Is there a reason behind that? Or do you not care for him or something?"

Heather blinked in surprise and considered the question. Then she shook her head. "Travis Grady 'saved' Alessa once. You could say he imprinted on her. Despite the hell she put him through. I even have a few cloudy memories from her point of view of him."

He looked at her in surprise at that last. Heather made a face.

"I didn't pick my origins," she said to voice her displeasure.

"So you... simultaneously care about each others' well being... but also freak each other out."

"Something like that. Though whenever he comes through Daybrook, he always calls me up for coffee."

"He hasn't fled the area, then?"

"No. Sometimes his job even brings him back to Silent Hill. Actually... Before... I had hit a rock bottom place in my life. I was a wreck. Supernatural things were starting to happen. No one would listen to me, no one could help me. I was spiraling down somewhere dark. Travis hadn't seen me in over a year. When he came through my town and watched me have a fit, he packed me up in his truck with a cup of hot cocoa, a pillow, and a blanket, and brought me to meet my therapist for the very first time. I hadn't been back to Silent Hill before that moment. Shows you how much I trust him, eh?"

Alex glanced at her in suprise, but nodded. "Sounds like a good man. No wonder Alessa decided to trust him."

"How about this one?"

Alex made a face. "It has that faux fur around the hood," he disapproved.

"Honey, we are going to Canada. If you think it gets cold here, you ain't seen nothing."

She saw something and moved up to appraise another item. Alex picked up the original coat and tried it on. Heather glanced back at him and smiled. It was a good fit and a good style, for all that Alex tugged displeased at the fur lining.

"I don't know," he said, looking at himself in a nearby mirror as Heather shifted through coats and jackets.

She laughed. "Do you find the trim emasculating?" she laughed and he sputtered.

"What? No! Er. Ehm. Well... Maybe... a little... It's faux fur."

"You look hot enough in it, that's for sure," she drawled teasingly. Heather was only taking glances back at him now and then, and so didn't see him blush and tug at his collar, because indeed suddenly the coat had become quite hot. "Ah! Just what I needed," she announced, pulling free a long jacket that was much lighter but had a deep hood.

"I think that is a man's jacket," he teased with a slightly awkward laugh. "And either way, much too light."

Heather merely grinned at the jacket, perhaps not noticing the discomfort she had caused her shopping companion. "Nah, this is for my own somewhat unrelated but certainly nefarious purposes," she laughed.

They eventually found themselves oogling kittens, which Alex found totally incongruous with the rest of Heather's personality, and couldn't help but laugh at. He also noticed she cringed away from the dog aisle, but looked at just about everything else, including the birds, ferrets, lizards, and-

He recoiled slightly at the sight of the tarantula she was boldly petting. His mind wandered to his little brother, who had always been obsessed with spiders... Amnion. He grimaced and had to avoid his eyes till she returned.

"I want to talk about monsters," he said almost breathlessly. Heather blinked and put an arm on his shoulder.

"Alex? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I want to talk about the monsters," he repeated, sturdier this time. "I want to know everything we've all seen. And why. I want to know everything your shrink has guessed at about them. What they mean. What they symbolize. Why we saw them. Everything."

Heather looked around the pet shop uncertainly and then back at him. "Are you sure...?" she asked at last.

"Yes. A lot of the monsters I saw looked like spiders. Does that have to do with my brother collecting them?"

She hesitated.

"Did you see monstrous dogs?" he pressed, trying desperately to break the ice on a much needed conversation.

She swallowed and then nodded. "Alex," she said slowly. "I keep a bestiary."

He frowned and turned fully towards her. "A what?"

"A Silent Hill Bestiary. An illustrated compendium of all the things we saw. Every survivor... I've sat them down and crystallized their memories down on paper. As a sort of therapy, to get what happened to them out of nightmare zone, to help alleviate feelings of insanity."

The ex-solider closed his eyes, then opened them again "Can I read it?"

"If you're ready, you can read it today. I keep it at the house."

"I'm ready,' he answered definitively. "Let's head back to your place then. We have what we came for."

* * *

Heather had cleaned up the leftovers of her Halloween installation a few weeks previously, so her front yard was clear and dusted with a light frost as the duo left their cars behind and approached her front door. She fiddled with the keys for a second.

"What happened there?" Alex asked, gesturing down the length of the porch. Heather glanced in the direction he indicated as she pushed the front door open, and then paused briefly. There was a very large canvas frame leaning against the wall of the house. The canvas had been stripped from it, and any remaining fabric that lingered around the edges had been burned. She blinked slowly at the frame, studying its size. Heather only had a few paintings quite that large. One of them was...

A puzzled look crossed her face.

"Looks like a fire," she answered without inflection.

As they entered the house, she hung up her coat and jacket, and noticed the laundry room door was open and the water was on. She moved ahead of Alex, who was still untying his shoes, and ducked into the laundry room.  
A plastic bucket was in the stationary tub next to two utterly filthy black boots. A stained white smock was soaking in a mixture of water and bleach.

Heather quietly turned off the running water; she reasoned her impromptu laundry assistant had been chased off by the smell of bleach before he could finish turning off the faucet. She poked the smock and then quickly exited the laundry room and eased the door closed behind her.

Alright. Clearly Valtiel was in the house. Probably running around in an unassuming fluffy white bath robe, yes, but still manifested and potentially very dangerous to her house guest. Alex! She'd brought him right into her home a day after Valtiel had returned... She was so busy worrying about Henry and Eileen, she'd forgotten that Alex was equally undeserving of her _Otherworld _related troubles!

A sudden bolt of panic shot through her.

Was Alex okay? She'd only left him for a second, but what if... "Would you like some tea?" she called towards the house doorway.

"Alright," he called back.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief and then headed into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. Her Mr. Shepherd joined her a few moments later, looking around her kitchen. Although he had visited her home before, it had been under cover of night, and he'd been preoccupied with investigating her relationship with the cult and gathering information. Now he looked about at the paintings hung on her walls, her choices in furniture color and design, and her other decorations.

It seemed to him that Heather had gone out of her way to make her home very 'homey,' very normal, like some kind of bastion against insanity. In sum her decor was warm and inviting. Her paintings were often impressionist, and frequently of fields, flowers, or groups of animals. Sunlight pored in through every available window. Her cabinets were light and yellow, and there were decorative plates and baskets on display around the circumference of the ceiling. It was a very nice house, and looked more like it belonged to a family of five than to a lone artist who struggled with depression.

"Black or Green?" she asked concerning the Tea she was set to prepare.

"Black, please," he answered, pulling out a chair and settling down. "Your house is beautiful."

"Thank you," she gave a half smile, settling down the mugs and tea bags. "Just a moment." She stepped out of the kitchen while the water was still boiling away, and returned with a thick brown portfolio. She kept it in the dining room hutch, in a separate location from her old family photographs. It was a weighty thing, a little intimidating in its presence, for all that it was little more than brown card stock and white acid-free drawing paper.

He sat up a little straighter was she re-entered the kitchen, and watched her attentively as she came up and settled the portfolio down before him. "It's all here," she told him. "Everything we've learned and shared with one another. I organized them by survivor, starting with James, then myself, Travis, Henry and Eileen, and then lastly anyone else who had a smaller brush with Silent Hill, like Douglas."

Alex looked at the portfolio for a long moment, appreciative of its solemn heaviness. Then at last he slowly untethered the cord that held it together, and eased it open to the first page. "James Sunderland," it read. Surprisingly, the next page was filled with an illustration of a fairly innocent looking woman.

"That's Maria," Heather explained. "A manifestation. A... construct of Silent Hill. Similar in almost every way to Mary Shepard-Sunderland. But not real." She reached over to turn the page for him, where Heather and, presumably, James had taken turns writing a description of her, her purpose, her symbolism. "I drew an illustration for each one, based on what each person told me. I helped them write down what explanations they could, and then later I ended up asking Kaufmann for readings of each, and added them later."

"He has nice handwriting," Alex noted, keeping nervousness at bay with slight humor.

"I know, it's really girly," Heather couldn't help but grin. She sat back and then glanced upward as her old house creaked slightly in the winter wind. "Mm. Hey, keep an eye on the Tea for me will you? I want to put the things I bought upstairs."

"No problem." He pulled off his gloves and smiled hesitantly after her as she hurried back to where she'd dropped her mall purchases. Then he glanced around her kitchen again. Heather had been denied the right to live a normal life, to grow up in a safe home surrounded by family. That might have explained why she furnished her home as she did. He looked back down at the leather portfolio.

Heather took her winter purchases upstairs towards the master bedroom. The door was open a crack and the light was on inside. Curious as to what Valtiel- or (heaven forbid) some other monster- could want with her upstairs bedroom, she pushed open the door and peered tentatively inside.

Her bedroom was a disaster. Clothing was thrown everywhere. Skirts here, shorts there, underwear, bras and socks left, right, and center. She looked around in bafflement before noticing the tall figure leaning over her dresser to peer intently into her vanity mirror, wearing one of Heather's nicest blue sundresses, and applying lipstick to its face.

Heather's eyes widened. She dropped her purchases with a thud, and a fabulously dressed Metatron whirled around to trill at her eyeless, his tongue wriggling excitedly, his face covered in a layer of expertly applied makeup. Heather slapped her hands over her face. "What's seen-!" she gasped in a half moan, half whisper, conscious of the man downstairs in her kitchen. "It cannot be unseen!"

Valtiel purred happily, hopping up to perch on one of her walls and then dropping back to the ground on all fours in front of her. He even had one of her Halloween wigs on. He'd elected to be a brunet.

"You- you-!" her brain could not wrap itself around the concept of her evil angel dressed in drag. "You- just-just!"

He grumbled and purred and cooed, quite pleased with himself. Heather moaned and picked up her bags, rummaging through them. She ripped out the men's jacket and insulated snow pants she'd purchased and quickly thrust them into a surprised Valtiel's arms. "Just- put this on before you hurt yourself!" she gasped, trying so hard not to laugh. "And before you burn my retinas out!"

He cooed in confusion, looking at the bundle, before rubbing his face against it happily and bounding on all fours off towards her walk-in closet. Heather stood shocked in the doorway for several minutes longer. It was going to be hard to talk about monsters after this. It was going to be hard to look at an image of a Closer without imagining it in a cocktail dress. After a moment, she headed over to the walk-in closet and peered inside, where her metatron had wrestled himself out of the dress and was curiously pulling on the jacket and pants. She reasoned she would have to help him with the zippers.

Actually, first thing first. She existed the room and walked into her upstairs bathroom, where she coated a fresh hand cloth in hot water and soap. Valtiel had just about gotten his new cold-climate pants on when she came up to him and wiped off his face. He wiggled and purred and rubbed against her, new clothing forgotten. She smirked.

"So, Vatiel?" she inquired quietly as he grumbled and cooed. "Erm. Well. I was _hoping_ to find you on your best behavior. We have a visitor. Today I went out to meet with my... friend... for some shopping... and he asked if he could-"

Heather was a second too late in her explanation. Quite suddenly, and without any warning or explanation, Valtiel went stiff as a board, his head cocked to 'look' through the floor boards and walls, directly down at her kitchen, at where she imagined Alex Shepard to be. She quickly grabbed his shoulder, hoping to keep him from bolting off or evaporation or whatever it was he might plan to do. What had just happened? She hadn't even been in a particularly interesting part of her sentence. Why not freak out at 'Visitor'?

Why had...?

What had Alex just seen in that book?

Heather swore. "Valtiel?" He kept growling. "Valtiel!" she hissed, giving a sharp little love-pat on his cheek to get his attention. Metatron jumped slightly and looked at her, twitching, his tongue oozing out from between his lips. "Valtiel, don't you _dare_ hurt him," she hissed. Metatron made to coo at her, but then his 'gaze' jerked back down towards the floorboards and he hissed. "Valtiel!" He didn't respond. "Damn it," she growled, getting up to her feet and scrambling out of the closet. She hissed behind her, "Don't!" and then rushed down the stairs.

Heather tore down the staircase, ripped down the hallway and slid into her kitchen. She came up to the table where Alex was still sitting, and grabbed his shoulder. He didn't react, didn't budge, didn't flinch.

Drawn in conte and graphite in the bestiary was an image of a tall and highly muscular monster. Straight-backed and masculine, it wore a smock not that different from Valtiel's own. In one hand it was dragging a massive rusty knife. It's head was superseded by a massive rusty pyramidal shape, which hung down over its shoulders and chest like a torturous metal hood.

* * *

Alex distantly felt Heather's arms around him. When he lifted his eyes, he realized sun was no longer poring in through her kitchen windows. Gusts and eddies of smoke- of fog- billowed past white and opaque. Nothing was visible beyond. The world was spinning. Heather was shouting something. "Let Go"? He couldn't tell. He could barely register her voice. Memories were flooding through his skull, burning out his eyesight, like images of a train station as a high speed engine rushed on by. Half-formed realizations, agonies, guilts, bloomed up in him, leaving him with a deadening and mind-numbing sense of panic. He was dizzy. He wasn't registering anything he saw. All he could see was his... his...

Adam Shepherd.

Alex shuddered, opening his eyes. Heather had helped him up away from the table, and led him over to her living room couch. She'd put a hot compress to his face, and the abrupt temperature change was enough to shock his brain back into the present.

"Hey there, you okay?" she murmured, looking down at him in concern. "You nearly hit your head you collapsed so fast."

He moaned, touching his temple gingerly. "I didn't...?"

Something growled nearby, and Heather glanced at it.

"When did you get a cat...?" he asked blearily, the memories tumbling in again. His heart clenched and tears formed at his eyes.

"Eh..."

"Heather," he whispered. "The descript... it... it said the Pyramid... Thing... the... the Bogeyman it... That it was an... an executioner."

Heather grimaced. "It was hatred. Jame's guilt and self-hatred and his desire for punishment. For what happened to Mary. Alex, did you... I know that... Josh..."

"It never hurt me," he whispered. "In a dream, it skewered my shoulder. Once. But it never killed me. It didn't chase me... or hunt me, and I hadn't even... I hadn't... I still didn't accept that I had... But it looked at me, it stared right at me, as if evaluating, and then it... it just kept... walking... it..." Tears filled his cheeks. "Heather, it killed my _dad,"_ he whispered.

She frowned, and her cat yowled slightly. "Alex..."

"It killed my dad," he gulped, repeating the words. "It symbolized... self hatred? Or just... hatred? Masochism or... just this... sick... 'justice'... I... I hated him. I _hated_ him, so much, for so long, I hated him, I feared him, I _hated_ him... For never... For not... He wouldn't kill me after... He- they... they all.. Heather?" He looked entirely at her. "Did my hatred kill my father?"

She stared at him for a moment. Silence ensued as he tried to hold back tears, squirming slightly in his self-imposed anguish. Then she leaned over him, shaking her head and gently dabbing his forehead. "Alex, your father was probably already dead," she told him. "Killed by the cultists."

"But you can't-"

"And what you saw... It was.. a manifestation. Silent Hill giving you a chance to forgive him. To say goodbye. The Pyramid was there to force the sentencing. Your sentencing of him. Forgiveness and acceptance, or hatred and denial... But he was already dead either way."

"But..." The tears broke over his cheeks. Heather leaned over further and hugged him, and he hugged her back immediately, as tightly as he could, pressing his face into her hair.

"Your hatred didn't kill your parents, Alex," She whispered to him. "Silent Hill doesn't work like that. You didn't see it, but James had to kill another Silent Hill 'captive.' With his own hands... without 'help' from Silent Hill... and without the shape of a monster to disguise the truth of the action. You didn't kill your parents. Just like I didn't go on a Silent Hill slaughter spree. I promise. Not even your Mother, to save her from Holloway. All you saw was an echo, an echo to help you forgive."

He just let out a sharp, pained breath. He couldn't talk.

"I promise."

She held him tightly for a long moment, until he pushed back against her shoulders a little. She sat back up and dabbed at his face as he tried to calm himself down, sucking in the cool air and staring up painfully at the ceiling.  
They were quiet for a bit as she slipped one of her hands into his. He squeezed it back as the minutes ticked past.

A sympathetic coo came from beside them, now no longer angry or condemning, neither hissing nor growling.

That was not a cat.

Alex sat bolt upright, and came face to face with a curious albeit faceless monster. It was perched on the back of a chair some distance to the side, and was wearing the jacket and pants Heather had just purchased at the mall.


	18. H & E Townshend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reposting this old story from fanfiction.net; I think it's much more readable here, don't you?

Alex picked his bags wordlessly up from the second carousel, and then followed Heather's lead as she made her way to the airport exit. She handed him an alternative ID as they walked, and he made sure to study it closely before pocketing it away safely and handing her his genuine ID for safe keeping.

"So we have to exit the airport and walk about a mile and a half. We'll catch a bus there," she told him quietly. He just nodded. He hadn't spoken much since Saturday. Heather glanced at him worriedly but knew it was useless to press the issue. He just watched her quietly, eyes unreadable.

They took a tram to the extent of the airport grounds and then started to walk. It was four o clock in the morning and very cold. Heather grit her teeth against the wind and adjusted her scarf. Alex glanced at her but said nothing for awhile.

As they neared taller buildings, coming closer to the city center, he asked only two questions.

"Is it following us?"

She glanced behind them. She didn't see anything, but she still felt the sense of protection that she associated with the metatron's attentive presence. "Most likely."

He gave a terse nod. "Will it lead the cultists to Henry and Eileen?"

"Probably not."

He nodded again.

As they neared the end of their walk, the side roads became more narrow. The bus station was two blocks away when Alex suddenly put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her close to him.

"We're being followed. By something other than your wall climber," he whispered in her ear, and then abruptly steered them both down an alley way. Heather blinked and swore. She was the only one of the pair that had held all the paperwork and met all the requirements for bringing a small arms into Canada, and the weapon was locked in her checked bag. If Alex could buy them a moment, maybe she could-

They rounded a corner. There stood a broad and imposing man with a gun, pointing the weapon straight at Alex. Heather thought that while he didn't seem interested in shooting them dead on the spot. His clothing was cheap and moth bitten and his hands were shaky. He was likely going to hold them up for money. Possibly for drugs.

Heather noticed all of these things. Alex probably did not. Within a minimal instant of rounding the corner, he had charged towards the man, grabbed his arm, and misdirected the first gunshot down into the concrete. The man didn't stumble backwards; rather he shoved at Alex with all his might and then pulled out a hunting knife, sweeping at the ex-soldier.

Heather shouted a warning as she stooped to retrieve her firearm. Alex shoved himself backwards to avoid the knife, tripping on the winter ice and landing on his back. The gun point swung towards her. She was just about to whip her suitcase around and see if the hard shell could catch a bullet when Alex coiled up and then did a kickup, leaping straight to his feet.

With his extra momentum, he booted the gun out of their assailant's hand, sending it skidding past Heather. By the time she had grabbed it and turned around, Alex had 'confiscated' the man's hunting knife and was holding the both malicious assailant's left arm in a pin and the hunting knife to his throat.

"I have a lot of anxiety to work out," she heard the soldier hiss. "Make my day."

Heather stared, wondering how it was Alex Shepherd could ever doubt he'd served in a military. What she'd just seen went beyond standard training, and way beyond anything people would teach a mental patient during therapy.

"Alex...?" she asked slowly, keeping her firearm trained on their attacker.

He seemed to snap out of somewhere dark at the sound of his name. He looked from her to the man and then back again.

"Easy with the knife," she coaxed. Silent Hill had forced them to kill people before, but this was different. This was firmly in the real world, with real not-just-psychological consequences. The two of them could be tried in court for murder if they killed him here.

Alex grimaced and slowly pulled the knife away. He released the pin and delivered a stern kick to the man's backside, sending him sprawling. As the would-be attacker struggled to his feet, Alex fixed him with a stern glare that could freeze a man's blood no matter the climate. "Check into a mental clinic," he instructed bitterly.

The man whimpered and scuttled away. He dropped something ovoid and silver on the ground as he went, like a pocket watch or makeup tin. Heather glanced after the fleeing man and then moved over to pick it up. Her breath caught in her throat. It was a silver medallion, etched with an image of the cult Mother and Child. Alex came up beside her and a look of concern crossed his face when he realized what she was holding. The two of them looked down the foggy alleyway after the fleeing man.

They heard a cougar roar, followed by a scream, and then silence. The fog cleared. The alleyway was empty, and a crack of orange rust rippled over the cement. Heather cringed.

Alex snorted in grim finality. He put an arm around Heather and pulled her in the direction of the bus station. They still had another long flight ahead of them. Heather glanced at him in amazement as they walk, thinking of his disgusted reaction to the word 'justice.' It was like she was looking at another man.

* * *

By the time they reached the airport and boarded their flight, his face had slipped back into a passive expression. He still kept one arm around her shoulders, however, stopping only briefly for when they had to go through security, until they were safely in their seats. Heather watched him as he buckled himself in, thinking back to the moment he'd first seen Valtiel.

Alex's reaction to the metatron was instantaneous. Heather had to dive at him, grabbing for the side arm and trying to get it free before Alex could get a handle on it. The two shouted at each other, grappled, as Alex tried to get free and Heather tried to pin him back to the couch. She had an easier time of it, not only because she had the greater leverage, but because Alex had a splitting headache and all the shouting was making him see stars.

She managed to get the gun, but she lost her hold on the man, who scrambled back over the arm of the couch, landed with a thud on the ground, ripped her fire poker from beside the fireplace, and pointed it threateningly at Valtiel. The metatron hadn't budged and was watching him eyelessly, a black tongue coiling about the edge of its face and tasting the air.

Oh God. That looked exactly like-

"Alex! Stop, it's okay!" Heather shouted, throwing the gun off onto a counter top and placing herself between Alex and Valtiel.

"The fuck it is!" he shouted. "It's from there! What's it doing here!?"

"He won't hurt you! He's not going to hurt anyone!"

"He! It's, it's-" he saw the triangular helmet in his mind, the creature standing a good ten feet tall, muscles rippling beneath a layer of coagulated blood.

"He's my protector!" Heather had shouted in desperation. It wasn't exactly true, but it was the best she could manage, and she had to call Valtiel something that emphasized his docile nature. Valtiel and Alex both looked at her simultaneously. Valtiel cooed.

"... What?" Alex had managed to articulate, all color drained from his face. His voice cracked a little. Heather winced.

"It's complicated. There's a fucking boogieman sitting on the chair behind me. Don't you think it's complicated!? Please, calm down, he's not eating anyone! Look, look!" she backed up and behind her towards Valtiel, who purred appreciatively and leaned forward to rub the side of his face against her fingertips. "There. Does that look hostile to you?"

Alex stared at her. Heather looked pleadingly, imploringly back at him.

In the plane, in the present, Heather wondered if Alex was still in shock all these days later. She couldn't figure out what was going on behind his eyes. His expression was blank, empty, closed. Yet there he was still beside her, still trusting her, still accompanying her out to meet Henry and Eileen. But when that cultist had disappeared presumably banished into the otherworld, he'd looked almost satisfied. Heather knew that had nothing to do with an acceptance of what Valtiel was. It was something a lot deeper, and a lot scarier.

Gray eyes lifted to her, noticing her stare. Wait, gray? Heather blinked and reached forward, touching his chin and pulling his face towards her. "You have cats' eyes," she suddenly realized. He blinked.

"What?" he asked, surprised and pulling back from her touch.

"Your eyes are two different colors. They're gray around the pupil with a brown outer rim."

He seemed a little flustered but smiled awkwardly, the first smile she'd seen in days. "It's called Heterochromia. Central Heterochromia. Was that what you were staring at?"

"No. I was wondering why a man who can do a kick-up from prone thinks he's spent his whole adult life in a mental institution." Alex frowned at her, but his face was more mobile, less-mask like, and she knew she hadn't prodded him into closing up again.

"They teach judo and other martial arts as therapy for patients."

"Judo is joint locks and pins," she said to him flatly with a funny look on her face, because he ought to have known better than to try and pass that argument. Clearly, the possibility that he'd never soldiered wore at him more than he let on. "You can kick a gun out of a man's hand, Alex Shepherd. If you weren't whatever the modern-day equivalent of a Green Beret is, then you were obviously a ninja." She pulled out the in-flight magazine in the back seat pocket, and opened it to have a look at what quirky overpriced junk the airline would try to sell her today. He settled back against his seat, watching her, absorbing her words.

Slowly, almost subconsciously, his hand dipped down from the arm rest and alighted softly atop her forearm. She glanced at him.

"Thanks, Heather."

She nodded.

"Do you still think my past was split?"

She thought of the cold look she'd seen in Alex's eyes, the efficiency with which he'd taking down their armed adversary, and the bitter finality he'd expressed towards the Otherworld claiming it's own. Suddenly she had an idea where the two seemingly contradictory components of Alex's personality might have come from. The strength was represented by the soldier; but the vulnerability, the sensitivity, that had come from elsewhere. "You don't need to be a soldier or a madman, Alex," she told him. "You just have to be the nice guy with pretty eyes who beats up armed muggers in the wee morning hours using only his left shoe."

That earned her his first full laugh since Saturday.

* * *

They tried to get some sleep on the plane, but as anyone who has ever tried to sleep on a plane could attest to, the task was quite impossible. When they finally touched down in Nova Scotia, Henry and Eileen (well, Eileen) called them to say that the snowplows had been held up and it would be at least another thirty minutes longer before the couple reached Halifax. Heather and Alex grabbed a cup of coffee and half a dozen donuts at the Tim Hortons in the Airport Square, and tried to keep each-other awake by playing I-Spy. At last they were summoned by cell phone out to Arrivals pickup, where a nice sedan rolled up and parked in front of them. Eileen had sprung out from the passenger seat and was hugging Heather long before an amused Henry even had the driver's side door opened.

"Heather!" she cried. "It is 'Heather' right? Not Cheryl? Oh whoever you are, it's so good to see you!" she laughed.

"Eileen!" Heather laughed.

"You must be exhausted!"

Henry came around the side of the car, looking from his wife and Heather Mason, to the tall dark-haired man at Heather's side. The two made eye contact and then moved forward to shake each other's hands like proper men. "Henry Townshend," said one. "Alex Shepherd," the other.

"So this is him?" Eileen ask, pulling back from the hug and turning to have a good look at the newest member of their extended family. "Oh!" she grinned slyly at Heather. "You didn't mention he was cute." Henry gave Alex a sympathetic look in his quiet way as the younger man blushed.

"It's cold out here," Henry noted. His voice had always been soft, even a little airy in tone, though in recent years his time with Eileen had added some modulation to his pitch, at least. "They've come pretty far, today. Why don't you get them in the car, Eileen?"

"Of course," she laughed, and then tugged Heather and Alex towards the doors, despite their protests that they could lift their own baggage. Henry just waved them off towards the warmth of the vehicle and picked up their things, putting them into the trunk one by one. Eileen's initial impulse had been to give Alex the front seat and to climb into the rear with Heather. But sly and devious as she was, she decided to put them both in the back, and then rode shotgun herself. Once the doors were closed she twisted in her seat to talk to them past the headrest.

"You won't believe how big the kids have gotten, Heather," she said. "And it's good to have you join us, Alex. I hope you'll be able to get some rest and relaxation up at the cottage. It's a beautiful place."

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Townshend."

"We're all in the same club," Eileen said with a wink. "You can always think of us like family."

"That's very generous of you, ma'am."

"Not at all! Heather likes to live on the front lines. But this is a calmer place. You're always welcomed to visit."

Henry rejoined them, pulled the car out of park, and smiled a little shyly back at them. "It's three hours to the cottage. There are blankets under the seat if you want them."

"We're good," both said in unison. They pulled out of the airport with Eileen turning around in the seat now and then to talk to them, pointing out landmarks and talking about her kids, work, the elementary school, and so forth. It wasn't pleasantly normal to listen to a Silent Hill survivor gushing on about such mundane things.

"You could always start coming in at Sydney Airport on the island," Eileen brought up.

Heather shook her head. "Trouble follows me too easily. I have to spend a little effort to shake it." Alex grunted in agreement, thinking of the cultist that had confronted them in that alleyway.

Eventually, after a long gap in conversation, she turned around to say something and found the two of them nodding off. Her sly gamble at the airport had worked. Heather was resting her temple on Alex's shoulder, who in turn was leaning into her hair.

She nudged Henry who glanced in his rear view mirror and nodded.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the cottage. It was seated up a long gravel driveway on a hill overlooking the valley on one side and the ocean on another. The trees were frosted with snow. The house itself was a lovely little thing of brick and wood, with a genuine chimney for a large wood burning fireplace, and the recent addition of an attached garage. Eileen reached back to wake up her guests before the made the turn into the driveway, and smiled at the way they seemed oblivious to the fact that they'd been sleeping against one another only a moment previously.

When they finally exited the car, they took a few seconds to stretch out their legs as Alex and Heather admired the place they'd be staying for the course of the next week or two. Then they grabbed up their baggage and hurried inside, where two bundles of joy quickly rushed up to tackle Henry Townshend's legs. He looked perplexed down at them as if this behavior did, always had, and always would continue to baffle him. Then he smiled and picked up the youngest one, carrying the child under one arm and a suitcase under the other and pulling the last child along with his hip so he could settle everything down.

"Well, this is the home!" Eileen cooed. "You can hang your things up here. Heather, let me have that bag so you can get your scarf off... there you go."

The inside of the cottage was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It was warm, rustic, and homey in a different way from Heather's own house. Alex found himself immediately liking it.

Eileen and Henry had taken turns naming their child, with Eileen's turn coming first. Their older child was a boy of eight named Mica John Townshend, and he was turning eight in early January. Their daughter was five, she was named Yvaine Hippolyta Townshend, after a star and an amazon queen, respectively.

(On that note, Henry had wanted Hippolyta to be her first name, but Eileen had argued back that anything starting with 'Hippo' was a cruel name to give a child if they expected her to survive her journey through public middle school. After intense negotiations, they had come to refer to her commonly as their, "Little Lyta," and the matter was settled.)

The children were introduced to Alex and Heather, the babysitter was sent home for the evening, and the family settled down for dinner. Soon afterward Eileen put Heather up in the visitor's room and Henry ushered the children (who clung to him like like little remora) into the rear play room. They insisted it was time for him to play with them, but he managed to extract himself temporarily in order to set up the living room pull out bed for Alex. He made sure the sheets were tucked in, and that the bed was heaped high with blankets and comforters.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Alex after a moment of silence, because he didn't know what else to say.

"It was a long trip," the man answered. "I wanted to thank you after- after all we've each been through... for being willing to let a complete stranger come and visit."

"Don't worry about it," Henry answered with a smile and a shy wave. "We can talk tomorrow." Alex nodded, helping Henry with the blankets. "Will you need anything? A glass of water?"

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

"Eileen and I are in the room on the left. You can wake us up if you need anything. Oh, there is something I should ask you. How do you feel about... Robbie the Rabbit?"

Alex jumped and looked at the man with a horrified expression.

"I see," Henry responded, a little laughing, a little grave. "So you know. But Eileen sleeps with one."

The younger man groaned. "That must be awful."

"I have many nightmares about it," Henry agreed. "Sleep well, Alex Shepherd. You should be very safe here."

* * *

Henry couldn't sleep. This was not exactly unusual for him. Henry spent many sleepless nights out on the rear patio or curled up in a window, putting thoughts to paper. Eileen had recovered more completely than Henry ever had. To some extent she was his rock; and to another he was hers. Today, however, he was unable to sleep because he was turning over Heather Mason's letters in his mind. He could recall that cougar roar very vividly, and his wife's terrified advice over the phone. Alex and Heather had been exhausted, and Henry and Eileen both had wanted nothing more than to get the young ones safely in the cottage, filled with a big dinner, and off to a restful sleep.

But the questions still lingered.

Henry watched his wife sleep for awhile, playing gently with her hair, before finally getting up and heading out the the kitchen. He closed the bedroom door silently behind him, and then moved to turn on a small overhead light and to pour himself some fresh water. Now and then he glanced at Heather Mason's closed bedroom door.

It was Heather, he decided. That's why he couldn't sleep. He was worried about Heather. It didn't show on his face. It didn't even occur to him unless he really sat down and thought about it- like he was doing now- but he was worried to the bone about the safety of Heather Mason. Should he check up on her? Had her monster truly followed her all this way? What did it mean? Was it a threat to his family?

The questions were like icy glaciers, capturing his mind beneath their weight and leaving no room for motion or escape. After a moment he walked up to the small stationary desk that sat beside the kitchen entry way, and pulled open the top drawer to fetch one of the many flashlights from within.

She was exhausted. Was he going to go in there, shining a flashlight around, waking her up? He sat down at the nearest chair, rolling the flashlight in his palm. Odd. He didn't recall Heather asking for a nightlight. If he remembered correctly, she never slept without one.

There was movement in the living room. Henry lifted his head to see Alex sitting up slowly. The younger man neither rubbed his face nor squinted in the light coming from the kitchen, so Henry surmised rest was also eluding Alex Shepard. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asked anyway.

Alex shook his head, his eyes settling on the flashlight in Henry Mason's hands. After a moment he stood up and came into the kitchen, running his tongue over his lips. He started towards the sink.

"Cups are on the left," Henry guessed.

Alex took down a glass gratefully and poured some water for himself. He chugged it as if parched and settled it down in the sink, looking out the black kitchen window, thinking.

"Something on your mind?"

Alex looked to him. His eyes dropped to the flashlight again. Then he came up wordlessly and extracted the torch from Henry's fingertips, took a few steps out into the living room, and waved for Henry to follow. The older survivor blinked curiously and then stood and followed.

Alex crossed the room and came up to where the door to the visitor room was located. He leaned against the wall up beside the door molding, perpendicular to the door itself, and waiting for Henry to join him. Curious about what Alex's intentions were, Henry took up a similar position on the other side of the door, and then watched as Alex turned on the flashlight, adjust the beam focus to a wide-angle soft glow, and then opened the door and shined it within.

Both men looked.

A growl issues out from within the bed chamber. A humanoid was monster pressed flat against the rear wall. He was high up and sticking to the painted surface like a gecko, oriented upside down so as to face towards the bed. one of his hands was braced against the headboard. The other was stretched downward to Heather Mason, who had both arms wrapped about the forearm and whom was using it as a sort of pillow .He was wearing a stained white smock with enormous laces holding together the back, new winter khaki pants, and rain boots. An equally new jacket was hung up neatly on the bed post beside him.

Alex shined his light just off to the monster's side side, to illuminate it so Henry could see without directly aggravating it-him-whatever. When they opened the door, Henry thought he saw bandages and lacerations cascading up his arms, but within seconds these had disappeared.

Valtiel growled at them again, louder this time, his fingers tightening on the headboard and around Heather Mason's shoulder.

Alex retracted the flashlight and quietly closed the door. He turned off the beam, gave Henry Townshend a level look, and then took the other man's hand and plopped the flashlight within it. Without a word, he turned around and moved back towards his pull out bed, climbed into it, and tried to get some sleep.

Well.

Henry looked at the shut door for a moment. Heather's Valtiel resembled "The One Truth," a puzzle-like monstrosity that Henry had faced on his way to killing Walter Sullivan. Almost perfectly. The thing Henry faced had been embedded into a wall, but they both shared the same ovoid head, the appearance of a smock, the split fleshed, and the red gloves.

"The One Truth" had been a rapidly changing series of portrait-like monsters, of which one had been 'real,' and the others merely decoys. It had seemed to suggest the chaotic opacity of the cult's beliefs, deity, and angels. In a perverse way, it was the perfect form for Heather Mason's unusual problem. Henry wondered why he had ever noticed the similarities between "The One Truth" and Heather's metatron. Then he understood. It was as he'd said to Heather over the phone, when she'd asked him what he'd read in her face.

Heather had been forced to draw Valtiel for her bestiary, because if James needed to see his Pyramid Head, and Eileen needed to see a sketch of Walter Sullivan, if Travis Grady had to watch her pen down the Butcher, than surely Heather Mason—the orchestrater of the bestiary—had to add her own signature monster. But Heather's boogieman had been different. Its neutral benevolence had filled her with guilt. How could she draw a monster similar to "The One Truth" or the Red Pyramid and say aloud to their faces that instead of torturing her, this demon had _protected_ her?

So of course she had drawn it in a different style than the other monsters, almost featureless aside from the seals on its shoulders, and the valve it turned. No clothing, shaded dark, with more emphasis on pipes and dangling legs than on the creature they framed.

He would have to talk to her about that later. Not that he blamed her; James had probably needed her to go easy on him. But Travis and Henry would have understood. Mr. Grady in particular could understand a great many very difficult things.

And what about Alex Shepherd? Henry turned about to look at where the man was r hopefully getting some much-needed sleep.

Alex Shepherd was still a bit of a mystery, but Henry surmised this silent reckless acceptance of Metatron's appearance was simply the younger man's coping mechanism. He had to partition his acknowledgment of the monster from his day-to-day living, or else the two combined would be unbearable.

They'd have to work on that.

Henry took the flashlight back to bed with him. The Robbie the Rabbit doll had transferred from Eileen's arms and was now sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor. He took in a long, slow, silent breath, picked it up, tucked it into his wife's arms, and then climbed into bed beside her.

At least this time it's mouth hadn't been smeared with her lipstick.


	19. Couples

For the first in a long while, life was gentle on Heather Mason and Alex Shepherd.

Eileen worked in town Mondays through Thursdays. Henry would wake up early to make breakfast for the family, and she would kiss the children (and her husband) before heading out. Henry would work from home and take care of the kids, sometimes with help from an elderly old woman down the road. The children were home schooled On weekends Henry would wake up early in the morning and go traveling with his camera equipment to do photo shoots. Friday was always a family day; the four of them would drive into town to shop, play, dine, and make merry.

When the visitors woke up that first morning, it was to a table heaped high with bacon, french toast, and scrambled eggs: a veritable feast. They praised and thanked their host, who just smiled shyly as he cut into his own food. Eileen laughed and gave his shoulder a hug. Then they watched the morning ritual proceed, as Eileen said farewell to her loved ones and headed off to work. The kids waved after her, and Henry would watch from the window till the car had safely made it out of sight.

The house was cozy. The food was good. The showers were hot. The kids were wonderful. Heather and Alex spent the first day almost in a daze, and somehow found themselves playing with the children in the rear room, drinking pretend tea, playing dollhouse, and competing against Mica on a video game console so Henry could get some work done.

Heather was the one playing the video game, and Alex ended up playing dollhouse, of course.

They were part of the family by evening, with children clinging to their legs and backs. Heather was bouncing Little Lita; Alex was getting wrestled by Mica. It was hard not to think of Josh and Harry, but they managed to push back memories to enjoy the present. After the kids had gone to bed that evening, the four adults curled up near the fireplace in arm chairs and on the hearth itself, to talk.

"How was work, Eileen?"

"Oh you know, same old, same old," the woman smiled. "How was your day, kids?"

"Well," said Alex, adjusting his weight on the couch and enjoying a good beer Henry had just bought him. "I wore a bonnet and enjoyed a splendid afternoon tea with Mrs. Ladybug and Dr. Chipper van Dyke the Third."

Eileen flung both hands over her mouth and had to press hard to stop from squealing with laughter. Heather wasn't so kind and cracked up laughing on the spot. "And you thought the faux fur on your hood was emasculating," she beamed. Alex just smiled and took another sip from his bottle.

"Well at least you didn't have to meet Mrs. Froglegs," Henry said to Alex with a smirk, "she talks and talks and talks..."

They all laughed. Eileen wiped her eyes, she'd teared up with laughter, and giggled slightly as she brought herself under control. "So... are you two enjoying yourselves?"

"Yes. And thanks again Eileen for inviting us," Heather told her.

"Invite you? We didn't invite _you_. We invited this handsome boy," she teased, reaching over to tap Alex's knee. "You, we forced," she reminded. Alex glanced at Heather. Henry blinked. "You were scaring us, Heather. It's good to see you're okay."

Heather shifted uncomfortably and smiled a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. She wasn't sure what to say.

"Are you gonna come clean with us about everything that's been going on?" Eileen prodded gently.

Alex sat forward and placed his beer on the table. "Would you want to talk about it if you'd started seeing little Walter in the house?"

Eileen jumped, shrinking back as if struck. Heather blinked at him in surprise and Henry tilted his head to the side. Alex leaned back into the couch again, folding his hands in his lap. "How about _I _start," he offered. "Heather showed me the Silent Hill Bestiary just on Saturday... but I haven't even told _her_ about my own demons. So it seems fairest I should start; I'm the one that has everyone else at a disadvantage."

"That's- you don't... have to do that," Eileen told him.

Alex shrugged, looking down at his drink on the table. "I ended up in Silent Hill for several reasons. My family neglected me as a child because they'd selected me to be sacrificed to the Silent Hill God. I was responsible for my younger brother's accidental death. My memories don't always line up straight. And a few people in town needed to be rescued from winding up as sacrifices. Elle Holloway and Deputy Wheeler. Actually, they might be as much members of this 'club' as I am."

"Alex," Heather said slowly. He glanced at her, but then looked back to the others.

"The monster I saw was ten feet tall. It looked a bit like Jame's Red Pyramid, but the helmet it wore was bigger, and black with mesh grating. Its smock was wrapped around the waist. Still carried the same huge knife. So the Pyramid went after James and went after the... woman, Maria. But my Pyramid Thing wasn't after me. First time it ever saw me... outside a dream... it just stared at me for a long bit. Like it judged me, and like it couldn't find enough reason to come after me. Instead it went after my dad. Like it was my hatred for him. Like it executed him on my behalf."

Henry smiled and looked down as if he was trying not to laugh. Eileen was gazing at Alex in horror and pity. Heather looked baffled and slightly alarmed. Alex alone noticed Henry's expression, and turned the other two towards the quiet man by asking, "What's so funny?"

Henry smiled and lifted his head a little, looking up at the younger man. "You don't have to protect Heather, Alex Shepherd. Though your effort speaks much of your bravery."

Alex blinked and looked almost as stricken as Eileen had at the mention of Walter. He blushed slightly, and after a moment looked to Heather a little awkwardly. The situation was uncomfortable, but Heather smiled awkwardly back. The members of the group recollected themselves for a moment. Alex rubbed his left temple; revealing so much so fast had given him a migraine.

"So," Heather began slowly, looking at Alex. "It was _ten_ feet tall?"

Alex gave a low chuckle, pressing a hand over his face. "Yeah. It was enormous. When it walked, the ground shook."

"Any oddly sexual monsters?"

Alex lowered his hand and stared at her. Heather shrugged.

"You read the Bestiary. Didn't you notice I fought a giant penis worm?" Heather shrugged. "The _Otherworld_ is really Freudian."

"There were too many boobs," he admitted quietly. Then he glanced at Henry.

Heather Laughed "No, not him. And he's the only one. I'm still trying to figure out how Henry has managed to sire children. Even my nurses had enormous boobs, and I'm pretty sure I don't swing that way."

"Heather!" Eileen exclaimed. The man in question looked shocked and very embarrassed; it was a funny thing to be embarrassed for _not_ having a dirty mind.

"The 'schisms' and worms might've been for Eileen though..."

Eileen pouted. Then she glanced at a slightly mortified looking Henry, and broke out laughing at the expression on her husband's face. "They've turned the tables on us, dear! And here I thought _we_ made a great tag team." Henry made a funny face. Then he sighed resignedly and went to take a drink from his own beer.

"Alright, enough of the defensive blocking," Heather said, leaning forward and smiling confidently now and reaching into a pocket to pull out her phone. "A few days before Alex showed up in Daybrook, I got an unexpected guest. Only instead of saying 'Yer a wizard, Heather,' mine was crawling across the ceiling making growling noises."

Henry blinked. "I thought you sleep with a gun under your pillow."

"I do everything with a gun," Heather retorted. "It sits in a plastic bag next to me while I shower. But I've never had the inclination to shoot at Valtiel. Even when I was in Silent Hill, it was like all the other monsters were afraid of him. I could take a breather as long as he was in sight."

"Little Walter," Eileen began, "was similar... His presence made it really impossible for the older Sullivan to hurt someone. It's only when he walked away that someone was in danger."

"Valtiel isn't-," she'd almost said 'real,' but she hesitated and then shook her head. "Valtiel was never _human. _Look this... this isn't exactly easy for me. I've spent the last few months living with patron angel of the cult that tried to kill you both."

"You could be in trouble Heather... you have to tell us," Eileen pleaded.

Heather shook her head uncertainly and looked to Henry. Henry alone might have understood what Heather really wanted to say. The truth. The man's eyes met hers, and he nodded slowly, understandingly. "It's _okay_, Heather," he told her, putting as much emphasis into his voice as

I-" They heard a creek from the visitor's bedroom which everyone else might have ignored, but Heather perked up slightly.

"Are you eavesdropping?" she called loudly.

There was a moment of silence in which Eileen and Henry blinked and then slowly turned around to look at the doorway, which was cracked open just an inch. Heather crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well?" she called again.

A low whine issued forth from the depths of the room in answer. Eileen stiffened.

Heather leaned forward, peering at the door curiously with a smile on her face. "Everyone here has been to the _otherworld_. Do you want to come out?"

The thing in the room gurgled and murmured and shifted about a bit. Then, slowly, a fuse fingered hand in a red leather gloved eased out between the crack, wrapping around the edge of the door and slowly pushing it open just a little further, revealing just the edge of an arm. Eileen's breath caught in her throat, and Henry reached over to touch her shoulder. The hand retreated a bit.

"It's okay," Heather coaxed.

The door opened just a little farther, bit by bit, til the edge of a leathery face could be seen. Eileen stared. Was it _shy?_ Was it- Memories. She saw a little boy, pudgy with baby fat, wearing a striped shirt, his hair brown and cut in a bowl shape. Walter, Little Walter, Walter Sullivan, a Doll-" She jerked back in horror, falling off her chair with a yelp. She was barely caught in time by a quick thinking Alex who had been on the other side of her and who had seen her alarm.

Valtiel retreated in a flash and the door slammed. Henry started to his feet and moved to take Eileen, who had begun crying. He hugged her tightly, murmuring soft reassurances and rubbing her back and shoulders. Heather grimaced and sat back against the hearth, rubbing her arms subconsciously This was _exactly_ the sort of scenario she'd been hoping to prevent.

* * *

In the end, Henry ended up having to put Eileen to bed. He held her and reassured her and gave her the rabbit she treasured. He pet her hair and kissed her cheek until she was calm and restful. By the time he returned the better part of an hour had passed. Alex and Heather had been speaking in low voices. The former was clearly trying to get the latter to talk to him. Heather was avoiding eye contact, watching her feet.

Henry sighed and slowly came back up to take his seat again.

"I'm sorry, Heather," he said before she could apologize.

She frowned. "What for?"

"Eileen and I have... each other. For those moments the memories hit us. But you... haven't been able to share with... anyone. Don't worry about Eileen, Heather."

"I'm tired," Heather told him, and moved to stand. Henry winced. Alex caught her arm.

"No you're not," the younger man admonished. "You're running."

Heather scowled at him. Alex did not respond well. He stared her straight in the eyes, not backing down, daring her to say anything at all. She frowned. He continued to stare. She yielded, sinking back down to the hearth.

"It showed up a few days before I did?" Alex prodded as gently as he could.

"Yeah," Heather murmured. "Where am I supposed to start?"

"Well... Last night I went to check up on you..." Henry started. Heather looked up at him in surprise, stiffening. "And I saw... him. You were using his arm like a pillow," Henry noted. She wasn't sure what to say, and was very uncomfortable. "I do not think Mr. Shepherd is going to judge you," he added.

Heather wrung her fingers. She wanted out of this position. She wanted- Alex placed a hand on her knee. She took a deep breath. "He does it so I won't nightmare." Then, seeing Henry's curious look, she continued, "I sleep soundly when I know he's there."

"Something that at best is one of Alessa's dolls... and at worse is the right hand attendant to the cult god?" Henry asked her.

"I'm banking that he's both," Heather explained. "The former would be as unreal as Maria. The latter wouldn't be following me around like a puppy." She rubbed her face. "I don't really know what Valtiel is, or why. But he's mine. And if he's going to show up at my home acting like a curious toddler, I guess I'll take it."

"You should have just shot him," Alex disagreed.

"Valtiel's never hurt me. He's protected me several times now. Deep down, Henry, what would you and Eileen do if Little Walter showed up on your doorstep, minus the crazy adult part?"

"We would take him in," the older man answered, because he already understood.

"Even knowing the danger?" Alex asked, curious.

"Yes."

"But this isn't a kid, it's a _monster_."

"I think the scariest thing was..." Heather began, "was the realization that... I don't think I've ever wanted my life to go completely back to normal. I think I stayed nearby because I wanted to _fight_. Only I was too scared to do much. Valtiel is _weirdly_ therapeutic for that. And..." She looked guiltily up at that. "And he's very cute."

Alex made a face. "It has no _eyes_."

"He likes yogurt," Heather countered. "Did you and your Bogeyman sit down to enjoy a nice parfait while you were running around Shepherd's Glenn?"

Alex crossed his arms over his chest. "You feel safe around it. But you don't know if it's real safety, or an illusion. You've said yourself it was the attendant to God, and it's job was to birth the deity. It watched over you because it needed you to perform a task."

"It killed Claudia..."

"This 'God' doesn't strike me as something that can be birthed peacefully. It might have killed _you_ if your positions had been switched."

The lights started flickering rapidly and the fireplace- which moments ago had been roaring happily- went out. The three survivors jumped up nervously. Then as they watched, slices started opening up in the couch, in the surrounding wood work, in the walls, the names of children, three generations of children. Alex stumbled back in horror. Heather scowled.

"Valtiel, I'm going to count to five," she said in a firm voice to the rafters. "One. Two." The lights began flickered more rapidly, wind gusting loudly. In her bedroom, Eileen put a pillow over her own head. "_Three_..."

The lighting settled down. The fireplace flickered and then slowly came back to life.

"Four..."

The slices began to seal, folding back together, melting out of sight. By five the room was completely stable again.

"The hell was that," Alex whispered, as white as a ghost.

"That? That was a temper tantrum."

"Over _what_!?"

"I don't think Heather's boogieman liked you talking about him killing her," Henry offered. Alex looked at him in surprise. "Permit me an experiment. Heather, you refer to him as 'he.' You let him sleep with you. Aren't you concerned that this may result in... a... forced 'conception' of the God?"

Heather raised a brow at the absurdity of this. "What, that he would _rape_ me-?"

Henry winced. He lifted his arms to see that numbers, 21121 were appearing, split into his skin. Heather stiffened in horror.

"GOD DAMN IT VALTIEL!" she bellowed. "YOU HAVE. NO. GENITALIA! CALM THE _FUCK_ DOWN!"

The reality distortions disappeared immediately. Henry shook his hands to try and get rid of the feeling of having been cut. "He is very insecure," the older man noted in surprise, as Alex watched in horror.

"You live like this all the time?" he whispered to Heather.

"No, no, no, no..." she grumbled. "No. Definitely not. I'd go crazy. _This_ is extra special. This only happens when someone else talks to me about him. So far he's flipped out at Henry and Eileen but was too weak to do anything over the phone. And he didn't like it the first time I mentioned him to Kaufmann. Other than that he's been sweet-tempered and docile."

"Too... weak...?"

"Something kicked the stuffing out of him. He disappeared for three days and showed up Sunday night in a complete fit, throwing things around my studio and covered in lacerations. Took me forever to calm him down, but he never hurt me. Henry suggested he might be... _delinquent_. That he might be in some kind of trouble with Silent Hill himself. Possibly related to walking out to come find me. Whatever's going on, it doesn't look like Valtiel's masterminding some scheme to hurt me."

"Why didn't he growl or roar, or even come out to attack me?" Henry asked thoughtfully.

Heather pondered the question. "Not sure. Maybe it has to do with bothering Eileen." Henry glanced at her. Heather shrugged.

"Why worry about Eileen? "Alex asked.

"We were part of Walter Sullivan's twenty-one sacraments," Henry explained. "In theory, Sullivan was possessed by Valtiel. ...And Eileen was the Mother Reborn. Sullivan cared about her- sort of- and it's why she was chosen to be sacrificed."

Alex grimaced. "So she's similar to Heather," he reasoned. "At least maybe in it's eyes." He slowly sunk back to the couch. "God this is so fucked up. All of it. The cult, what it believes in... How do you go from caring about someone to sacrificing them? Even my parents were better. Everyone in Shepherd's Glen... They-they did what they thought they needed to, but it drove most of them crazy with grief..."

Henry looked at Heather's closed door as the girl touched Alex's shoulder reassuringly. "Well," Henry began, "he is temperamental. But it feels as if he is on _your_ side, Heather. So I understand why you must keep him." He looked to her. "He is your light in dark places. And he reaches out to you from hell; it is natural to want to help."

"It's a monster," Alex protested.

"That makes him twice as important," Henry told him. "How frequently do demons fall in love with us?" He looked back to Heather. "I understand, now. And I think Eileen would, too. But... the last time she reached out to help an avatar of Valtiel... she nearly walked into a very large blender... Maybe it's better we don't talk about him with her present just yet. Maybe we should just get to know Alex better."

"She's got a sane reaction," Alex argued.

"Maybe. But Heather is stronger than all of us," Henry said gently, "and shoulders burdens so that we do not have to." Alex frowned. Heather didn't quite believe Henry's assessment, and just lowered her eyes. "We should get some rest..."

"Tomorrow's Friday," Heather noted. "How about we just let loose and enjoy the weekend together? Then we can start up chatting on weekend nights again. I really think what I need right now is to get my mind out of that hell hole and into some snow drifts. What about you, Alex?"

He shuddered. "I could use a long break," he agreed.

Henry smiled. "I think that can be arranged. Why don't you both get some sleep. I'll help you with the bed, Alex. Heather? You're sure your Metatron will not hold a... grudge?" he rubbed his arms.

Heather hesitated but said, "He never has before."

Henry nodded. Heather got up and headed off to her room, while the two men set up the pull out bed. When the door had closed behind her, Alex glared at Henry. "She could just leave Maine! Leave Silent Hill behind!" he hissed.

Henry glanced at Alex but did not speak immediately.

"Why are you encouraging her to climb deeper into this rabbit hole?"

"Heather is different," Henry noted. "And sometimes you have to climb deeper into rabbit holes to ever find your way out again." Henry knew a lot about rabbit holes, actually. Though not ones dug by actual rabbits. Unless Robbie had... Um best not to think that way.

"She's not responsible for what happens there! She isn't Alessa. You know what will happen. It will eventually claim her- kill her or worse, birth that God!"

Henry blinked at him. "You think she stays out of guilt, or hate, or masochism?"

"If not that, what?"

"Heather does not see Pyramid Monsters, Alex Shepherd. Her equivalent is benign."

The younger man grimaced. Henry tilted his head to the side. "You were a soldier, weren't you?"

Alex paused for a moment. Then he nodded.

"A soldier should know... what the urge to protect someone feels like. To fight for something, some cause, and not just out of self defense."

The Shepherd boy lifted his eyes, staring at Henry as if seeing him for the first time.

"When it comes to the supernatural... You and I act out of self defense. For ourselves. For our friends. But Heather acts like a soldier, for everyone. She stays there because she has to find a way to fight it. It's her cause. I did not flatter her when I said she was stronger than us. Could you return there? I can't. James can't. Travis- infrequently. But Heather? Every other day."

* * *

Henry took off 'work' for the weekend; instead he took pictures of the town and scenery. It was a three day vacation for the whole family, and with two additional members there was no end to exciting activities to engage in. The quintet went ice skating, fishing, tobogganing; they saw ice shows, miniature theater productions, movies, and even reindeer. Alex confessed he had never been to the Silent Hill amusement park- or any amusement park for that manner. He squeezed Heather like a vice while they were tobogganing. She still hadn't permitted him to live it down.

At times they would break off by gender, with the girls going away to get their nails painted, or the boys checking out a sports utility outlet. At other times, Henry and Heather would sneak off to a book and stationary shop while Eileen and Alex chattered. And then of course there were times like now, just before dusk on Sunday evening, when Alex and Heather settled on a park bench and watched over the two children building snow forts, while Henry and Eileen took some personal time skating on the adjacent lake.

"This is nice," Alex said happily. "Mild haunting aside, I think this is the nicest place I've been all my life."

Heather smiled. "Eileen and Henry really know how to live!" she agreed, leaning back against the bench and enjoying the last remaining rays of sunshine.

"That ice cream was great. What was it called. Moose?"

"M-o-u-s-s-e. Chocolate Mousse. You can get a real variety in like New York. Have you ever had Gelato?"

"Is that the Itallian stuff?"

"Sure is."

"Yeah that's really rich. Totally different than like a swirl cone from McDonald's.

"My favorite stuff is frozen yogurt actually, the real smooth and creamy kind."

"Flavor?"

"Vanilla. Vanilla all the way."

"Blech. Why would you want unflavored ice cream?"

"It's not unflavored! It's flavored with vanilla extract."

He made a face. She laughed. "Why didn't you choose to come live up here?" he asked her tentatively, not sure if he was breaching the rule about no Silent Hill discussions till Monday. "I gotta admit the thought of renting out their visitor room has been tempting me."

Heather shrugged. "I tried to move away from Silent Hill a few times. It never really worked for me."

Henry returned to their side of the lake. "Eileen is getting hot chocolate," he told them, and then he hurried up to help Little Lita with her snow fort.

"He's a great dad," Heather and Alex said simultaneously. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

"He's so quiet," Alex confessed. "At first I didn't know what to make of him. It was like he had no reaction to anything."

"I thought he was asexual until Eileen told me she was pregnant with Mica," Heather whispered back in a giggle. Alex snorted in well-intentioned laughter.

"Is that a sore spot for him? He looked scandalized when you brought up penis worms," he teased.

"I think just a little," Heather laughed back. "He's really sweet and sensitive when you get to know him, and completely level-headed in an emergency. He was worse before he met Eileen. They're really cute together.

"They are _very_ cute. I guess they suit each other. They're like opposites."

"I'm pretty sure before his 'experience' he'd lived in the same building for two years without ever saying a word to anyone. He'd been going down an unpleasant hole that had nothing to do with Silent Hill. The same thing that makes him a great artist makes him terrible with people. I think he crushed on her the whole two years without saying a word."

"How did he even know who she was?"

"Okay, don't tell anyone I told you this. According to Eileen, he actually watched her through a crack he found in the wall between their apartments."

Alex blinked. "That's creepy."

"Says the guy who broke into my house and rifled through my things while I was away."

"Touche."

Henry had been tackled by small children and was laughing and trying to get to his feet without injuring anyone via ice skate blade.

"So, you gonna take them up on the visitor's room offer?" Heather asked the soldier, sobering a little even as she said it. She'd miss his company. Daybrook could get very lonely sometimes.

Alex blinked at her and thought about the question. "No. It's too far."

Far? "From what?" she asked him. From the center of town? From Elle Holloway? Heather thought she remembered Alex mentioning that Elle now lived in Colorado with her father, and Nova Scotia was barely farther away than Maine. Maybe he was stuck close to Silent Hill the same as she was?

"From you," he said, as if it were obvious.

Heather blinked and then blushed slightly and turned away from him, laughing. "Don't let Eileen overhear you say that! She'll start trying to make us a couple."

Alex looked at her and shifted a little. He rubbed the back of his neck, and then- just before it would have been too late and too awkward to say anything at all- he managed out this: "I... sorta thought... maybe we already were."

Heather blinked and spun about to look at him. Alex held her gaze quietly, his face raw with all his vulnerability and hesitance bared to the light. Henry, who had just barely overheard them, lifted his head in surprise.

"But-" Heather hesitated. "What about _Elle_?"

Alex shifted uncomfortably. "Elle's my best friend in the world," he began. "We've been together since we were kids. But... if I were _in_ love with her, I'd be there beside her in Colorado right now. Not here with you."

A silence fell, broken only by the laughter of curious children. Heather and Alex stared at one another.

"Alright, who wants hot dogs?" Eileen called excitedly as she returned with armfuls of supplies. The children whooped and ran up to meet her, taking their cups of steaming hot chocolate and their freshly grilled hot dogs. Henry moved over towards her. "Hey loves! It took _forever_. The queue was really long. And I saw that horrible woman Ms. Greldin up there. She's really quite a- erm, don't repeat that children. So it took forever to get the chocolate. But thank God its still warm because it's really nippy out today and- Alex? Heather?"

The two didn't move. She blinked, looking from one face to another, confused. Henry cleared his throat.

"What? _What_?"

Henry leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her shoulder. Comprehension dawned on Eileen's face.

"_Ohhh..._" she murmured.

* * *

That evening, Heather was restless. Even though Valtiel was there, she got up several times to pace back and forward across her room. Metatron was quite confused by this, and had eventually come to perch on her bed post, his head following her as she walked back and forth, back and forth. He cooed, trying to get her attention. What was wrong? Had he done something offensive. He reached out to pluck gently at her hair.

Heather paused. She rubbed at her face and then smiled at the confused angel. "It's okay, Valtiel," She told him, coming up to his perch and lifting her hands to his face. She pulled his head down a little and kissed his forehead, earning her a purr. "You're still a great teddy bear." He cooed. What was wrong? "Nothing's wrong," she reassured him. "Why don't you go watch the stars or something?" He pulled back and tilted his head to the side curiously. Then, realizing he was being dismissed, he slowly climbed off the bed and into the shadows. He grabbed her arm, to make sure she didn't need him. She just smiled at him. Then after a moment he faded off into the darkness, to watch over her from afar.

Heather rubbed at her face. She really was tired and the night was getting particularly late. But she couldn't sleep.

About ten minutes later, a very sleepy Heather pushed open her bedroom door and peered out into the house living room. She couldn't see much over the back of the couch, but Alex was in bed. A moment passed, and then her sleepiness overwhelmed her indecision and she shuffled out into the living room, rounded the couch, and settled down on the edge of the pull-out bed. He hadn't been sleeping calmly and awoke with a start, eyes wide open, blinking into the gloom.

Heather didn't say a word, lifting up the blankets and slipping her legs under them. He hesitated only a second. Then when she started to lay down, he grasped her arm and pulled her close to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her back. Heather cuddled up beside him naturally, as if they had done this before, as if it were normal routine. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and was fast asleep within minutes.

Alex watched her as her breathing leveled out and her body relaxed. He brushed a hand over her hair and then looked up towards the ceiling, staring at nothing, willing his blank mind to rest.

Not a minute later, the metatron appeared in the corner of his vision. It crept silently over the ceiling, past light fixtures and the ceiling fan, soundless despite its violent twitching. When it was directly over top of them it tilted its head back to 'look' downward at the couple, black tongue slithering out to taste the air.

Alex just stared at it. A long moment past. When Heather didn't begin to nightmare, it continued on its path across the ceiling, and faded off into the shadows. He waited a few minutes longer to make sure that it was gone. Then he turned his face into Heather Mason's hair and closed his eyes.

In the morning Henry had to wake up Eileen early so she could see the two curled up on the pull out bed, and the married couple shared a knowing smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently transcribed a lot of my notes from back when I was writing this fic, by paging through old notebooks, and they included the outline of the ending and the epilogue.
> 
> I'm mentioning it now because I *just realized* that Alex's preoccupation with vanilla as 'unflavored' shows up in the epilogue, and I'm like 'how the frag did I even remember that across all the years this story took to write?'
> 
> Anyhoodie! Onward ho!


	20. Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been uploading a chapter per day, 3 chapters, 3 days, so make sure you seen em' all!

No matter what Henry Townshend tried, he couldn't catch hide nor hair of the metatron. After a time, he realized Valtiel probably realized his intentions and was purposefully avoiding him. Even though Valtiel was no longer needed as a pillow, he probably still spent most of his evenings watching over Heather Mason- and now by proxy Alex Shepherd. But his sudden disappearance wouldn't deprive Heather of a sleeping surface, so he was free to come and go as he willed.

Bummer. Henry had really wanted to get a picture of him.

Eileen was going crazy; she was seeing the wall-climber _everywhere_. In the bedroom, in the bathroom, outside the shower, on the way to work, on the kitchen ceiling, in the basement, while chopping firewood- the list went on and on and on.

She broke down crying about a week after the visitors first arrived. Henry had been at a loss for what to say for a moment. Then he gave her a camera and told her to carry it around everywhere with her, about the neck. Eileen thought it was a silly idea; Henry insisted. She went a whole day without seeing the metatron. After that, the camera became her holy talisman. She never went anywhere without it, and she never had a chance encounter with the boogieman again.

Camera shy, indeed.

* * *

In the evenings they worked with Alex. Heather had brought the Bestiary, and the four of them worked together to fill some new pages. They started off with the Pyramid Thing - the Bogeyman - and then moved their way onward. Henry came up with cider for all four of them. Alex was leaning near Heather's shoulder to watch her draw. "Bigger," he was saying. "Bigger." Heather raised a brow after a few repeats of this, and then drew something she clearly thought was ridiculous. "Yeah. Like that."

"They're _enormous_!" Heather exclaimed. "This is a nurse? They're like beach balls! They're just spilling out all over the place!"

"I know," Alex sighed unhappily.

A thought occurred to Heather. She looked down at herself and then worriedly at him. She was not particularly well endowed. Alex's eyes widened. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms about her, and kissed her as firmly as he could. Eileen giggled; Henry was confused.

When the kiss broke, Heather blinked dazedly a few times, providing an opportunity for Alex to speak. "I promise not to compare myself to any large worms if you will please ignore my nurses," he said, kissing her forehead and cheek. Heather grunted, closing her eyes appreciatively to the doting. Eileen stole the drawing book and laughed harder. Henry remained confused.

Alex needed a few beers and to sit with his face in his hands in order to describe both Amnion and Asphyxia. Heather leaned against him the whole time, smirking in amusement, drawing the monsters precisely as he explained them to her, pulling away one of his hands now and then so he could correct her and then replacing it so he could keep a little bit of his dignity. Henry was still confused; though Eileen had finally explained the nurses to him.

The Canadian Thanksgiving was celebrated in October, and was already a month past it. Nevertheless, the family set up a big celebratory dinner near the end of November. They bought a turkey and a ham, which Alex and Henry were put in charge of (Alex was the least experienced cook of the lot). Heather made the marshmallow-covered yams and cranberry sauce, while Eileen put together a casserole.

When Alex protested by saying he didn't know how to cook, Eileen told a funny story to help him relax. She explained that their actual October Thanksgiving had been a hectic occasion. Henry had asked her to mind a few things while he went out to shop for more groceries, but Eileen had gotten so engrossed in a paperback romance novel that she hadn't noticed anything was awry until the house was filled with smoke. They had ended up eating Chinese takeout.

Heather put a plate of food inside her room and left it there. She'd said a prayer of thankfulness in private for her guardian angel.

One day after Thanksgiving, while Henry was homeschooling the children, Alex and Heather pulled out a laptop and began internet shopping for some suitable Christmas gift. They still weren't sure how long they planned to stay; Heather had work to do, but they wanted to give Henry and Eileen something nice anyway. They argued over a wide variety of plausible presents, trading ideas back and forth, until they finally managed to settle upon a cartload of suitable items.

"Get my purse out," Heather requested, gesturing over to her things as she chased down one last elusive item. Alex obliged, picking up the bag. She asked him to fish a certain card out of her wallet, and while he was busy doing so, he stumbled upon her driver's license and pulled it out.

"Cheryl Heather Mason," he intoned. "Adult Driver's License. Oh… Em..." Heather blinked back at him and laughed.

"It's the picture, isn't it?"

"Well..."

"I look like a half-drowned Alessa Gillespie," she moaned. "It's a terrible picture."

"I wasn't going to say anything but…" He suddenly stood up straighter, blinking in surprise. Then he looked at her as if scandalized.

"You were born in '83?" he asked her.

What a strange question. "Well, the last time, yeah. Why?"

Alex was silent a moment. "I was born in '85," he said quietly.

Heather blinked. "You're younger than me!?" she exclaimed in laughing horror. "No _way_! You have gray hairs! I don't have any gray hair!"

"That's genetic, and I just lost my entire town!" he protested. "And you dye your hair!"

"I have jet black hair! Not a single gray strand! I dye it blonde only, swear to God!"

Egad! He looked from the license to her again. "You're really twenty-five?"

"You're as old as Laura!" she broke out laughing. "You're like a baby!"

He moaned indignantly and then came up to her head, bowed in defeat. He gave her the card she'd ask for as he slumped against her and her chair, wrapping his arms about her shoulders and kissing her cheek affectionately.

"How's it feel doting on an _ooooold_ spinster like me, boy?" Heather faked an old woman voice.

He groaned into her shoulder and said nothing.

"Don't worry, your sugar momma will pay for this Christmas," she teased with a wink. Alex stiffened, lifting his head. He looked at her, and then at the credit card. No. Absolutely not. There was a mad dash as both youngins' dove for the card simultaneously. Henry found them wrestling on the floor. When he couldn't overpower her immediately, Alex had set to tickling her, and the girl was squealing and kicking to try and free herself.

"What is this about?" he asked curiously.

"Alex…!" Heather wheezed. "Is two years - Ah, stop it! Younger than me!"

Henry looked at their laptop, and both young adults froze. They had to tackle him to stop him from disrupting the screen saver and learning their Christmas secrets.

* * *

Heather started getting restless first. The day he first noticed it, Henry ended up sitting in his bedroom window, watching the world pass outside, unable to sleep. It didn't always show on Henry's face, but he worried. He worried about Heather Mason. Eileen woke up sometime later and found him tapping out an email to James Sunderland. When she came up behind him she was surprised to see that he was telling James about Heather and Alex both.

"Heather might be in danger. Be on your guard," Henry was writing.

"That won't work," Eileen argued.

Henry glanced at her. "Why?"

"James is a coward," Eileen said disapprovingly. "If you mail him something like this, you'll just send him into hiding for a year."

Henry examined the email.

"He's not healthy. Not like the rest of us are. He disappears at the slightest sign of danger and drags Laura along with him. For her sake, don't send it."

Henry looked at her again. "You're wrong," he told her bravely. "I will send it."

Eileen looked at him in surprise and then shrugged. She was quite surprised again when they got an email back from James Sunderland within the hour.

"What time is it in California?" she asked, baffled.

"Earlier than it is here. James is a night owl." He opened the email.

_"Henry. Buying plane tickets. Will be in Daybrook in two weeks. Can you keep her entertained till then?_

_-James."_

"I don't get it," Eileen said, in surprise. "You mentioned the name _Shepherd_."

"James is a father," Henry reminded her. "Heather isn't much older than Laura."

"Well, another win for you, honey. What are we up to?"

"Seven hundred and fifty three. To fourteen. You are winning."

Eileen laughed and kissed him. Then she sighed and looked crossly across the room at the empty wall.

"What has the architecture done to displease you?" he inquired, sending James back a quick, _"We'll try. You know how she is. -H&E."_

"Nothing," she said with great disappointment.

"Were you expecting something of it?" he asked, turning around in his seat.

"Not a peep, not a creak, not a single noise at all," she muttered. "Nothing."

Henry inspected her for a moment. He looked in the direction she was facing, and it occurred to him that Alex and Heather were sleeping in the visitor room, and that the visitor room was in roughly the same direction as Eileen was looking. "Are you being lewd again, dear?" he asked, because he was never exactly sure.

Eileen huffed.

He couldn't help a smile, looking down at his feet at the embarrassing nature of the conversation. "They are hurting," he noted softly. "Give them time. We were... together... months before-"

"Yes, but we didn't share a _bed_. Maybe we should just toss a box of rubbers in there."

Henry nearly choked trying not to laugh. "I'm not sure that would be the best course of action, dear."

She rounded on him with a grin. "Oh, I'll show _you_ the best course of action…!" she laughed, coming up to him and placing her hands on his chest, leaning over to kiss him. Whatever Henry had wanted to say was immediately muffled, and he lifted his hands to stroke through her hair. When she pulled back she smiled devilishly at him. "Come on," she tugged him towards the bed, "If you aren't going to sleep, I won't either. _Someone _has to do some work around here!"

Emotions didn't always show on Henry's face, but he hurried quickly and unquestioningly after her.

* * *

In the other room, Alex lifted a brow and glanced behind him towards the opposite wall.

"They're _loud,_" he noted with surprise, because they definitely and most certainly were. "I didn't know Henry could _be_ loud."

Heather grinned a little and reached up to wrap an arm around the side of his neck and face, pulling him back down against her. Alex settled back over top her shoulder, easing his arm gently around her own and clasping her in a gentle hug. "Are you alright?" he asked her after a moment, kissing her shoulder.

"Yeah," she answered softly. "Alex?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you. Not many guys would do this... I should know."

He blinked, lifting his head to get a good look at her.

"I mean, I _tried_ to... to just... to have a normal… But..." His gaze swept down their bodies to where their legs were entangled and he was spooned up against her. Then he could feel a shudder rising up in her, and he tightened his hug a little to stop it.

"It's okay, Heath..." he murmured, nuzzling into her hair.

"I've never..."

"I know."

"I'm not sure if I can..."

"I know."

She grimaced, and asked in a small voice, "And if I can't?"

"We'll figure it out then." Alex smiled, stroking gently up and down her arm. "It's okay, Heather. You've been though a lot."

There was a pause. "My last shrink said I had intimacy issues," she blurted.

"Your last shrink thought you were schizophrenic," he countered. "Heather? I've already signed on. You don't have to read me the fine print anymore."

She was silent.

He listened to her breathe for a moment, thinking perhaps she didn't really believe him when he said that. He'd just have to keep saying it, then. Fair enough.

Self-depreciation was something he understood. She was traumatized; her Silent Hill experience had hinged on a demonic teenage pregnancy for which her only family member was brutally murdered. And she was also insecure. He got that, too; He knew what to say to that. It was a lot easier to approach Heather's vulnerable side than it was to approach her invulnerable one; the side that needed no one and could stand its ground cocksure against unfathomable darkness.

He tried to push those thoughts aside and lighten the mood up so she could relax and get some sleep. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly up to the occasion either."

She took a deep breath and smiled. "Is that chronic, by any chance?" she teased him wryly.

Alex glanced up at the shadow of the room. Nothing could be seen... but that didn't necessarily mean nothing was watching. "Depends. Is having otherworldly deities spying on us from the shadows chronic?"

"Oh, terribly chronic. Inoperable, actually. Though the doctors say it's not malignant."

"Not malignant, my ass. Maybe we can draw a chalk circle, throw some salt or something..."

She almost smiled but then frowned. "Have you been sleeping at night...?" she suddenly asked.

He gave a bitter laugh. "_Heather_. Easy. Whole world isn't your fault."

She frowned, not sure what to make of that. "But-"

He touched her lips gently with his fingertips. "I was sleeping badly long before I even made it to Shepherd's Glenn. With you... at least I get a few good hours."

She deflated a little. Then she thought of Kaufmann's words to her, about how she was always very ready for people to write her off. She thought about her panic attacks, the one she'd suffered months ago around Valtiel, the one she'd _almost_ suffered when Henry Townshend had called her, and her last meeting with Dr. Kaufmann...

If she wanted this, if she truly wanted this, if she was determined to give it a chance, then she had to stop looking for holes. She had to stop giving herself reasons to be afraid. Of course, that was easier said than done. She blew out a sigh, grateful for the warm body draped over her side and back, grateful for the arms folded around her.

"If you'll swear not to tell anyone," he murmured into the back of her neck, "I'll tell you a secret."

"Pinky promise," she said, lifting up one finger from where her arms were crossed over her breasts. He lifted a hand to make the pinky vow.

"I'm enjoying myself," he confessed, eschewing any fear of what this might have said about his sexuality, hypothetical capacity for performance, masculinity, and/or libido.

Heather was suddenly almost irritated. She felt a little insulted, actually. "That's not how guys work."

Alex's eyes opened. It took a moment before he said anything. "So I've been told," he managed tightly.

Heather blinked. Then, realizing the grievous error she might just have made, she rolled a little into him and onto her back, looking up at him. Alex usually had a very good poker face, but he was currently struggling to hold his expression steady. She was not currently looking into the face of the soldier. This was pure sensitivity. "You like _cuddling_?"

He didn't say a word, because gender norms and stereotypes were very damning things.

Heather looked at him a long moment. "That's really hot," she said at last.

Alex blinked at her in surprise. He was even more surprised when she pulled her arms away from her chest, rolled towards him and out of her defensive position, and started to kiss him.

* * *

"I don't get it," Eileen complained. "It's not normal. It makes no sense at all."

Henry kissed her breast. "To outsiders, things seldom ever do."

* * *

When Heather woke up with very messy hair, Eileen immediately pounced on her. "So? So? Did you do it?"

Heather, who had just woken up and was still shower-less and bleary eyed, blinked rapidly. "What? Did what?"

"You _know..._" Eileen drawled. "Well?"

Heather felt embarrassed. "What? No."

"Then what's with the sex hair?" Eileen asked, pouting.

Heather blinked, touching her hair self consciously. "We just... cuddled."

Eileen scowled, disbelieving, as Heather awkwardly scooted off towards the shower, wondering what it was she'd done wrong. Then the older woman stalked up to Henry and gave his elbow a sharp tug. "You need to talk to her!" she hissed.

"What? Me?" he protested. He was still hoping Eileen would be the one explaining the Birds and the Bees to Mica, much less Heather Mason.

"Yes, you!"

"I do not feel qualified."

"You're more like her than I am, I don't get it at all, so you have to talk to her!"

"I believe she is in the shower at the moment. It would be improper to disturb her."

"_After_ the shower!"

Henry was at a loss for what topic he and Heather Mason could possibly discuss. He pleaded wordlessly with his wife to be more patient with things that did not concern them.

"Don't give me that look. I know that when Heather was going through her _first_ set of boy troubles, you were the one she talked to! I know you think you always get to the mailbox first, but I spied the envelopes addressed only to 'Henry'!"

Alex shuffled out of the bedroom next, looking rather calm and content for someone who did not smell of musk. Eileen immediately went quiet, smiling awkwardly and then rushing into the kitchen to make some tea. Henry sighed, relieved. Alex blinked in confusion and came up towards the kitchen table and pulling out his phone to check his email in the process. "What was thank about?" he asked.

"I am rarely sure." Henry answered. Perhaps this was Eileen's way of worrying about Heather while at the same time being steadfastly reluctant to discuss Valtiel. If Eileen couldn't handle thought of the boogieman, then she had to put all her nervous protective energy into trying to get Heather a nice and stable relationship.

Alex made a choking noise and stood up from the kitchen table with a start, holding his phone in both hands.

"Alex?" Henry asked.

The younger man reread the text he'd received two or three times. Then he looked up at Henry like he'd just been stabbed. "Elle's missing," he whispered.

* * *

Elle Holloway had gone missing the previous day in the early morning hours. Her father had woken up to sounds of a struggle and found numerous masked persons in her room, tying her up in a bag. He had tried to save her, but someone had knocked him out. After a day of talking to police and FBI agents who had no leads or information, he had written a frantic message to Alex Shepherd.

Alex was a disaster. He was frantically pacing back and forth throughout the house, and was in such a state of distress that Henry had sent the children off with their usual babysitter and Eileen had called in sick to work so that the family could have a quick meeting.

"Alright, so what should we do?" Eileen asked.

"What _I_ need to do is to get on the next plane out of that airport!" he said.

"I agree with Alex," Henry told her. "I will drive him to the airport myself."

"Where will he go?" she asked loudly. "Colorado?"

Alex was stricken by the question. He stopped pacing, took in a long sharp breath, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then he turned around to look straight at Henry. "No. Shepherd's Glenn first... then Silent Hill. I have to go back to Maine."

"But…" Eileen hesitated. It was pretty obviously cultists, so no one argued Alex was jumping to conclusions. Unless Elle had joined the mafia or gotten messed up with international politics, there weren't many other reasons for someone to steal her and sap her father.

"Think about this," Eileen protested. "Don't just walk in there without a plan!"

"I will walk in there every day of the week without a plan if it will save Elle Holloway!" Alex shouted.

Heather moved forward and grasped his arm. "_We_," she told him. He hesitated. Heather shook her head and looked to the rest of the group. "There's only one reason for Elle Holloway to go missing with such impeccable timing. Someone was watching me and Alex, and they weren't expecting us to leave the country. We left together, and Douglas is a pretty hard target, so to lure us back, they went after Elle."

Alex stared at her. "No," the younger man protested. "This could just be vengeance... We really screwed up things in Shepherd's Glenn..."

"Shepherd's Glenn was already filled with people who had left the side of the Goddess," Heather argued. "I'm the only one of us whose been experiencing supernatural occurrences, lately. This might have more to do with baiting me back than you and Elle."

He was silent. Henry thought for a moment, and then put forward another point. "It may also have something to do with Valtiel. He was attacked only three days before you left the country."

Heather blinked. She had always reasoned that Silent Hill might try to pull her back one day, but she'd expected that any dangers involving Valtiel were simply inherent to the fact that she was seeing a supernatural god monster. Henry had suggested the monster might be _himself_ in some kind of trouble. So what if this whole thing was because Heather had been sheltering the Metatron? What if Valtiel was the real reason Elle was in danger?

That was bad. That was her protecting a monster and putting an innocent girl in danger as a result.

Heather took in a deep breath. "Damn it. I knew something like this might happen. This is why I didn't want you guys to visit me, Henry..."

Henry shook his head. "Silent Hill is bigger than you, Heather Mason. We… All of us survivors… Must always share its burdens together. Or we risk losing each other. You did not voluntarily bring this on yourself."

"But I-" Heather protested.

Eileen grimaced. "Yeah. Look at the timing, Heather. Your... demon... shows up, and a few months later someone goes missing? I think it was just like foreshadowing. Something was already stirring up in Silent Hill, and the Order would have moved no matter what you did. And if it takes you, it will take all of us… So you can't cut us out of the loop here."

Heather looked at them, and then back at Alex. "I'm coming with you," she told him. "We'll find her together."

He looked pained for a moment but then nodded. "We need to go _immediately_. Last time Elle was in trouble, I almost got there too late. Someone was just about to dismember her with a rotary saw."

"We're gonna bring you to the airport," Eileen said, "Let me go check the flights, I'll buy online or we'll end up waiting forever in queue." She went hurrying off to procure a laptop. Henry glanced after her and then looked back to the younger couple.

"We will make arrangements to care for the children and then join you in two days. It may be that the _otherworld_ will engulf you before then whether you let it or not."

"We'll be okay," Heather said. "We'll get her out."

Henry stepped up to them, face very serious, no longer shy or awkward. "Come back alive. Both of you." He looked them both in the eyes, and then moved to join his wife.

Heather looked to Alex and the two then set to frantically gather their things together, hunting down jackets, scarves, underwear, books, and so forth. "Alex, I'm so sorry," Heather said as they stuffed clothing haphazardly into their baggage.

The soldier shook his head vigorously. "Henry is right. This isn't your fault. And I don't hold anything against you, even for... It," he glanced at the ceiling.

Heather winced, biting her lip as she checked her gun and then packed it away. They were silent a moment. Then when Alex spoke again, his voice was heavy and thick.

"But I need your help," he told her. She looked at him. He'd stopped packing and was resting his hands on his knees, staring down at nothing. "I need your help to rescue her. Because I-I won't survive a return to that world so soon... Not without your help."

She stared at him for a moment, and then pushed past her baggage and hugged him tightly, pulling him against her and showering his face and hair with reassuring kisses.

* * *

The home was frantic. People were rushing to and from it, trying to get everything ready. They had to call up the babysitter and explain how long they would be gone, grab the keys, get their coats... Henry had a few items to give Heather that might help her in the coming battle.

Henry shook Alex's hand. "Keep her safe."

"She's tough, you keep telling me so," Alex returned.

"She has her weak spots, and the Order knows how to hit them," Henry cautioned.

In private, Heather confessed to Eileen that she'd been terribly jealous of Elle since first hearing her name.

Eileen nodded sympathetically.

"It's different now," Heather said. "I was jealous because I liked him within days of meeting him. But he's like her sister, so that makes her like _my_ sister. I'll stop at _nothing _to help him save her."

They gathered together, double checked their things. They were early. The plane wasn't coming just yet. Alex was antsy and wanted to get to the airport straight away. Henry offered him a bottle of beer, but Alex brushed him off. Instead, the older man made coffee. They stood around sipping on their mugs in a state of silent panic, trying to enjoy the last hour they had together. A peaceful vacation had turned into a mad escape in less than a day.

"If she's dead," Alex whispered, "if she's just an echo like my parents were... A manifestation... I don't..."

Heather grasped his shoulder but had no soothing words to give him except, "If they'd wanted to kill her right away, they probably wouldn't have kidnapped her first."

He shuddered.

There was a creak one room over, and this time all four adults noticed it. They looked towards the visitor bedroom, where the door was once more partially open.

And then it dawned on Heather.

She moved past Alex and Henry, stepping around the couch and coming up to the doorway. Eileen moved closer to her husband and slipped a hand around his waist. Heather stood before the doorway. Then, slowly, she lifted up her hand and offered it towards the crack, palm up.

"Please come out," she implored him.

Silence greeted her for a moment.

"Please, Valtiel. For me."

She knew the others behind her had to think she was crazy. This was going to upset Alex and freak Eileen out. But Heather had to do it. For Alex, for Elle Holloway. Valtiel could travel to the _otherworld_ any time he pleased. If the Order planned on sacrificing Elle, he might be the only one fast enough to get to her in time.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, the door eased open. Gloved fingertips eased out over the lip of the door, clutching it for a moment. Then a second hand appeared. The first quested forward, out into open space, and the fingertips alighted gently on her palm. Heather closed her hand about his, and then gently pulled backwards.

The Metatron followed her, stepping one booted foot out of the room, then the other. It seemed he had just come in from outside as he was dusted lightly in snow and had been halfway through taking off his jacket (perhaps a habit he'd learned from Heather). The Metatron had gone from the outside world to the inside without using any doors. The rules of space didn't apply to him. He could go anywhere.

Eileen pressed herself into Henry, eyes wide. Alex stiffened. Valtiel pushed the door entirely out of his way and stepped into the family living room, twitching violently. At first he was hunched, animalistic, as if he'd rather walk on all fours. As they watched he straightened up vertebrae by vertebrae, till he was standing at his full height. He was several inches taller and many pounds heavier than any other man in the room. Corded muscles rippled under the split and leathery flesh of his arms.

His face was a mask of melted leather, with papery lips drawn tight against the upper corner of his head. His fingers were fused together beneath the gloves. At first his movements were a little gestural and puppet like, but as he stood straight his arms fell straight against his sides and his head stopped twitching so much.

He 'looked' over all four of the humans assembled and then slowly lowered his gaze to Heather Mason, who smiled at him despite the awkward position she was in, and who reached up to gently caress his face. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Wounds mostly gone?"

He purred at her, but then kept looking back at the other four assembled. His fingers twitched.

"Look at me. I need to ask something of you," she said to him. He twitched quickly back to look at her, yowling curiously and docking his head to the side. "It's a girl named Elle. Elle Holloway. Do you recognize her name?"

The Metatron gave an affirmative mumble and Alex Shepherd grimaced.

"She's our friend. The cultists just kidnapped her, and we're flying back to Silent Hill to try and save her."

He cooed curiously, his tongue curling out from his mouth. Alex blanched. Valtiel glanced in his direction, but Heather tugged his face back to her. He stumbled and hunkered down a bit as he caught himself, regarding her.

"Can you get to her first? Can you find her, make sure she's safe, and lead us to her?"

"Heather…!" Alex gasped.

Valtiel turned his head completely to dock in the opposite way. The query had intrigued, confused, and baffled him. Maybe he was perplexed by why Heather was so willing to dive into hell to rescue a woman she'd never met. After all, her first words to him on his reappearance had been angry demands that he not send her into the _otherworld._

"Please, Valtiel. This is so important to me," she told him.

He 'stared' at Heather for a long moment, tongue flicking through the air. Valtiel had no eyes, but by this point in their friendship Heather was starting to get a feel for what was going through his head. His exact thoughts were behind her - Valtiel was far too alien for that - but she could tell he felt conflicted, torn. Worried, even. He growled a little.

"I'm going whether you help or not," she said very quietly. His eyeless face continued to watch her for a moment. Then he lifted up his hand and gently grasped both of hers by the forearms, pulling them down a bit. The gesture worried her. "Valtiel...? Will you do it?" she asked.

Valtiel was still a moment. Then he nodded carefully, surely, so that no amount of twitching could explain the motion away. Heather smiled. Suddenly he leaned forward and pressed the front mouth crease of his blank face up against her cheek. Heather reflexively hugged him. She got the strangest impression that she had just asked him to do something dangerous, and that he had accepted it anyway. He purred against her and then pulled back from her embrace and vanished into a cloud of ash and rust.

She turned back towards the rest of the group, and look particularly at Alex Shepherd. They were staring at her, because that had not been anything like any Joshua, Alessa, Cheryl, or Maria. That had not been Little Walter; That had been Walter Sullivan. That was a Pyramid Thing. And it had just conversed with her, kissed her face, and departed off to the unholy _otherworld_ to run an errand on her behalf.

"I'm not going through that hell just to find another Harry Mason," Heather told them. "Come on; we've got a plane to catch."

Henry sighed. "I didn't get a picture..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would argue with Henry that all the Silent Hill protagonists are amazingly strong people, just in totally different ways. Alex can break out of a chair while having his leg drilled through and kill the woman who's torturing him with her own weapon. Heather can run through the whole thing totally sarcastic and unafraid, more pissed that her dad was killed than she could ever be frightened of monsters. Henry's real level-headed and totally calm even in a really messed up emergency...
> 
> But I guess if you really break it down, Heather's got the hottest temper, and is the one most likely to just run in guns blazing like she's Bruce Willis or something.


	21. Once More into the Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, back in the day, a couple great people—named Rexxie13, Tress13, and MysteriousWatcher—helped me beta this fic. Round of applause, everyone, for them. Somewhere between 2012 and 2017, they were bros/sisters for an author in need, and they deserve to continue to be honored for their deeds.

The word "Blasphemer" had been etched into each of the four founding houses. It was four in the afternoon on the same day from which they'd departed Canada, and the sun was due to set within the next hour or so. Although each of them had known that daylight would be limited, they had jumped in Heather's car and proceeded onward to Shepherd's Glen without even stopping to discuss the matter.

Alex was shaking. Shepherd's Glen was the place he had suffered in, not Silent Hill per se. And it was also the place he'd grown up in. Too many emotions were tied to the dismal gray stones, the untended yards, the empty houses. Shepherd's Glen was a ghost town in a way Silent Hill had never been in the real world. It was very eerie. There was no fog. It was just _dead_.

That simple word, 'Blasphemer,' was enough to suggest that Elle wasn't here. It had a dismissive, holier-than-thou attitude towards the Glen. The crude graffiti was not the only set of marks upon the doorways, however. On further inspection, she realized each home had very familiar marks on the doorway. She took out her phone to take a snapshot of each, and looked through them curiously.

A chill came over her. There were four symbols, one for each of the founding houses of Shepherd's Glen. These symbols showed up, one in each of the four cardinal directions, on the Halo of the Sun insignia- the mark of the Order. As much as each family might have striven to distance itself from the Goddess, they had never truly left her side. They had lived under her mark their entire lives.

They weren't going to make it to Silent Hill that night, and Heather doubted Alex would be able to sleep once they returned to Daybrook. They found themselves in a strange haze where time had no meaning at the end of a very intense rush. Alex walked from home to home almost as if dazed, touching shattered picture frames, sidestepping broken doors and furniture, and the paint which only one year later was already beginning to peel.

They passed through the home that had once belonged to the Holloways'. Heather saw pictures of two girls in the home, one of whom was Elle. It wasn't much of a leap to realize that the younger of the two had been Nora Holloway. Heather grimaced. When they reached his own home, Heather could tell. He hesitated a very long time at the doorway, and when he finally stepped in his movements were shaky. She hurried up beside him and wrapped her arms around his. Her actions made him halt and close his eyes, taking in deep breaths. When he'd composed himself, he started forward again.

The house seemed, in ways, sadder than the others. A lonely rocking chair was stirred into movement by the wind, forever in the shadow, forever untouched by the light of the living room window. It was a home that basked in its tragedy, that acknowledged its own darkness, that defied it, that had died for it. Each of the other manors, Holloway through Fitch, had remained stately, organized, empowered. This home alone screamed of its powerlessness; acknowledged its loss.

They did not stop at the first floor landing. Alex climbed the staircase, up to a cozy bedroom he must have shared with his little brother. They were still drawings on the walls and scattered over the floors, though a year of constant weathering had yellowed them. A conveniently placed Robbie the Rabbit Doll was perched on one bed, and appeared to be sopping wet in the otherwise dry room. They tried to ignore it. Alex paused just inside the threshold, unable to go farther. He hadn't returned to this room after defeating Amnion; He, Elle, and Wheeler had immediately fled the town. Now the sight of those drawings almost broke him.

"Alex," Heather murmured to him.

"If Josh hadn't died," he said slowly, voice wavering. "It would have been only us four. Everyone else would have survived. My mother and father. Elle would have been safe... And my brother... he-"

Heather quickly entered the room. She moved around the soldier, coming directly in front of him and looking up at his retentive face. "_Alex_," she hissed. He looked at her as if spooked, and the sudden change in expression let several tears through. "One day, a kinder God Willing, Elle Holloway will have children, and grandchildren."

He frowned, not understanding.

"Those grandchildren will be roughly your age at the time of the next sacrifice. And you have just saved her from ever needing to become her mother. From ever needing to justify the murder of her own flesh and blood."

He stared at her.

"The thing you killed here was _evil_. You protected good people. You killed no one who had not first shed an innocent's blood. And because of Josh's accident, however terrible it might have been... we can say the same about your father. You may keep seeing the Pyramid Thing over and over again in your dreams, but the truth is that you neither found Adam Shepherd cutting his arms open, nor threatening an innocent with a rotary saw. And you know, you _know_, that he never wanted you to die in the first place."

Alex was shaking. She gazed at him a moment, almost irritable, as if his self-deprecation had been a personal affront. In a way, maybe it was; Alex was currently her partner, and to suggest Alex ought to be dead was to suggest that Heather ought to be alone. Then, on registering his expression, her face softened a little and she lifted her arms and touched his own. A moment passed; then he crumpled into her, hugging her tightly, pressing his face into her hair.

* * *

They left Shepherd's Glen almost immediately afterward. Heather asked if there was anywhere else in town he could look for signs of the cult, but Alex merely shook his head. They weren't there; He could feel it in his bones. The word 'Betrayer' pointed to a culprit in Silent Hill. They would return to Daybrook for the night and head out to Silent Hill in the morning.

He was silent on the way back to Daybrook, leaning his temple against the passenger side window and closing his eyes as if hoping to find some miserly quantity of sleep. She reached over and gently shook his knee when they arrived back at her place. His car was still parked there, and had been since they'd originally headed north.

"Hey. We're back. You want to crash here tonight?"

He nodded. When they entered the home she made some decaffeinated tea for them both. He was antsy, nervous, stressed. Heather's house had three bedrooms; the other two were for guests. She never let Douglas put up in a hotel while he was visiting, and on the rare occasion someone came to see her, a room was always available. While Alex tried to calm his nerves by turning on the news, sipping his tea, and pacing around the domicile; Heather opened the registers in one of the spare bedrooms and brought up a portable heater.

Heather wasn't sure Alex would actually be able to sleep that night. She made sure the house couches each had a throw pillow and blanket available. Then she came up behind the man where he was sitting on her counter top near the television, listening to the weather forecast for the week.

"Alex?"

He looked at her. "I made up the guest bedroom, first door on the right upstairs."

The soldier nodded.

"I know you probably aren't going to use it. So I made up the couches, too."

This time, he had the decency to look a little cowed, or bashful. He looked slowly down at his drink, contemplating the steaming contents.

"Try to get some sleep, Alex," she told him. He was still in his coat. She reached up and unbuttoned it for him.

"I'm too worried," he acknowledged, voice weak, slipping his arms out of the coat.

"You need to be at the top of your game tomorrow. And the next day. And for however long this is going to take." Their faces were very close to one another. They spent a moment watching each other's features, savoring their closeness in this otherwise anxious moment.

"I'll try..." he murmured at last.

Heather folded up the coat, leaned forward, and kissed him. Then she hung the garment over the back of a kitchen chair and headed on up to bed.

* * *

When sleeping beside Valtiel, Heather could actually dream. She rarely remembered the contents because she was sleeping deeply, and well. But the bits and parts she remembered were peaceful. They flowed like gentle streams from idea to idea, place to place, topic to topic. Sometimes they were a little uncomfortable; sometimes the sky rained chocolate. They were nothing like Heather's Silent Hill nightmares.

Those nightmares were convoluted and terrifying. And without Valtiel or anyone else there to chase them away, those nightmares were driving full throttle across her brain. Heather was restless even with the nightlight on, and her sleep was very poor. Half formed shapes lurched at her; a feeling of vertigo, of panic, followed at all times. She saw her father, but he was twisted moments later into some horrible monster. There was little continuity to Heather's nightmares. They didn't play out like stories; they were more like disjointed hallucinations. Giant mashed-up collages of everything and anything she feared, swirling about in a mind totally incapable of logic or remembrance.

But this time, something different happened. Something grabbed her, yanked her, _pulled _her back into someplace like lucidity. The motion was physical in the way dreams could be, and very different from the endless, distressed spinning of the nightmare. The montage broke, rippled, and folded aside. Heather looked around to find herself on a gray landscape. The features were vague and constantly changing, but all vertigo was gone. She was present; she was wholly Heather Mason, and she was dressed as she had been that fateful day Harry Mason died.

Heather stood up slowly, looking around. There was a presence behind her, something big, something powerful, something frightening. She spun around and beheld it for the first time.

It _was_ enormous, just as Alex had said. It stood ten feet tall, a black metal hood hanging low from its shoulders down over its chest. Its arms were gloved in blood from fingertip to elbow. Huge muscles bulged beneath leathery skin and prominent blue veins. Its shoulders were broad, waist narrow only when held in comparison. Wrapped about its hips were belts suspending a filthy off-white kilt, not unlike Valtiel's smock. One arm was coiled backwards, the fingers wrapped about the hilt of the enormous blood-stained knife standing upright beside it, tip planted solidly in the earth. As far as she could see, none of its fingers were melded together.

The Pyramid Thing was staring at her; she was sure of that. Heather had noted once that Valtiel was shaped in the form of masculine power. The Pyramid Thing was the same, albeit grossly exaggerated. It must have weighed at least eight hundred pounds, not including the helmet or knife. No truly human frame could have supported its grotesque musculature; it was physical strength incarnate.

A long black tongue eased out from underneath the helmet on one side, coiling up through the air, tasting it. Heather's brows lifted in surprise and she took a quick step towards the creature before reconsidering her actions and pausing. Then, despite all better judgment, she crept closer to it, feeling smaller and smaller the closer she came, the more it towered over her. It shifted slightly. She was well within striking distance. It could have even grabbed her with its unoccupied arm.

She lifted a hand slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the tip of the helm. At the touch, it growled slightly. The sound was less cat like, more like a Jurassic Park dinosaur, but whistling low and rumbling as if through a metal smokestack. The tongue eased forward and wrapped about her fingertips with a painfully tight grasp. The touch was small but strangely threatening.

Heather shuddered. The Pyramid thing stepped towards her, the footfall so heavy and so powerful that it caused the earth to tremble under her feet. Heather stumbled backwards and the Pyramid thing took another step, its tongue slithering down to hold tightly around her wrist. The blade tore out of the earth behind it and followed them with a painfully high-pitched shriek. The monster lifted up its free arm, reaching five thick fingers menacingly towards her throat.

Panic.

But then nothing. The dream ended, spiraled off in another direction entirely.

* * *

Heather Mason woke up in her own bed with a living heat coiled about her. She blinked back the edge of what had been a reasonable quality sleep, and then glanced downward as arms tightened reflexively around her. A wave of surprise crested through her. She hadn't even bothered to ask for this. Alex had been so antsy, so stressed she hadn't imagined he could handle enjoying another feminine presence while Elle was missing.

There he was, asleep, his face buried in the crook of Heather's neck, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his upward facing shoulder draped partially over her own. He'd stripped down to his underthings and coiled up against her the night before. Heather closed her eyes for a moment, feeling his breath ghost warmly over her throat. Then she reached up and gently ruffled his hair. The man grunted sleepily and clutched her even harder for a moment, before blinking awake and loosening his grasp.

"Good morning, handsome," she murmured. "We should get up."

He peered at her face sleepily for a moment, contentedly, and then the events of the previous day came back to him and he lurched up to a sitting position with surprising speed.

Heather blinked and grasped his arm. "Hey! Easy," she called to him. "Easy."

Alex shuddered and took a moment to compose himself. "I'll make coffee," he said thickly. Then he scooped up his clothing from the day before and hurried across the hall to the next room, where his suitcase was. Heather rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly. She never remembered much of her chaotic nightmares or her confusing dreams; but an image of the Pyramid Thing had crystallized hard in her memory.

"If you ever see it again," she decided sleepily, "Show no fear."

* * *

"What are we bringing?" Alex asked, eating the toast Heather had made for them as fast as he could. Heather was kneeling beside the dining room hutch and he'd followed her in with his plate in one hand and his jacket half donned. Heather glanced up at him. Then she began pulling out the drawers of the hutch, showing of drawer after drawer of weapons.

The shotgun, he immediately envied, but there were other interesting weapons, from a modern rifle to a beautiful katana. Heather snatched the latter free immediately and drew it out to admire. He was a little surprised at the implication that seventeen year old Heather Mason had gotten herself educated in the art of Japanese swordsmanship even while moving haphazardly around the country.

"No more than we can carry," she answered his earlier inquiry. "If we do get sucked up by the _otherworld_, it won't let us hold on to more than that."

"I thought you were married to your small arms," he wondered, kneeling down to pick up and examine the rifle.

"Hand guns are for normal life. _This _is for Silent Hill," She smiled at the katana and then sheathed it and buckled it at her side.

He couldn't help an admiring smile as he peered down the sights of his new weapon. "This is nice," he complemented.

"You want the shotgun?" she asked, running her fingers over a crowbar. Score; he'd been jealous she would take it for herself.

"Damn straight I do."

"Good. I'll take the Uzi."

He lifted his head and looked at her. She was fitting the sub-machine gun with a silencer as methodically as if she had been born with it in her hands. He tilted his head to the side, and for a moment managed to push back his fears concerning Elle.

Heather noticed him staring and blinked. "What?"

"That Uzi is very slimming on you," he teased her, and tugged her forward by the shoulder to kiss her. Heather blinked and held the kiss for a moment, before pulling back and smiling at him wondrously.

"The other guys I dated always ended up hating them. They usually thought the handgun was neat at first, but once they realized I was a better shot than they were, I stopped getting phone calls back. One turned out to be a pacifist and wanted me to throw them out. Guess the others were just intimidated by a lady tougher than them."

Alex smirked, hoisting up the shotgun and pulling the rifle over his shoulder by the strap. "You're with _me_ now," he reminded her. "We'll do our guns together."

Heather smiled. "Well! Keep talking like that and you're going to get lucky fairly soon Mr. Shepherd," she teased back, grabbing a second handgun and moving to strap both at her thighs. Because if she was going to go into Silent Hill, there was no reason not to pretend she was Lara Croft.

Alex nearly choked he laughed so suddenly and so hard. He tossed her the left holster when she couldn't find it, scooped up some shotgun ammunition, and then smiled at her endearingly. "My father would have approved of you," he said, and his smile did not falter.

Heather kissed his nose. "Ditto."

* * *

Heather drove them to Silent Hill, wryly thinking that if the weather became foggy and she saw a figure on the road, she would probably plow straight through it.

"The forecast is sunny for the next five days," Alex told her, unwrapping a pop tart. She'd brought a stash of snacks and packed a few changes of clothes for each of them. There was no guarantee that driving into Silent Hill would bring them to the _otherworld_; for all they knew Elle had been kidnapped by cultists stationed firmly in the physical world.

Heather nodded. "Dig out my cell phone, will you? We should call Kaufmann and tell him we're coming."

Alex nodded and dug through her purse. He pulled out the phone and tabbed through her contacts and hit the call button.

"Heather?" came a startled male voice on the other side.

"Uh- no, this is Alex Shepherd, her... friend." Heather glanced at him.

"Alex? Heather mentioned you... Is she there? Something happened recently, and I really need to speak with her."

Alex laughed nervously. "Actually, we're on our way to Silent Hill right now."

There was silence at the other end for a while.

"Hello?"

"I suppose I should have guessed," Kaufmann acknowledged in a restrained voice. "I'm assuming this is neither a courtesy call nor a regular appointment if you are both in such a rush, then?"

Alex covered the receiver. "What should I tell him about why we're coming?"

Heather shrugged. "Tell him the truth."

Alex hesitated. "Really?"

"Really."

The man nodded and uncovered the receiver. "One of our friends has gone missing, and we think she might be in Silent Hill," he answered a little vaguely, not sure what level of truth he ought to tell.

"I see," Kauffman said quietly. "Tell... Tell Heather that I will make up beds for each of you at the Lighthouse. No need to stay in that overpriced hotel. It'll be good to meet you finally, Mr. Shepherd."

"I'll tell her. Thank you; she's only got complementary things to say about you, too, sir."

"Drive carefully. And... Alex? The sky is still clear, here. I'll call you if that changes." It was Kaufmann who hung up first, leaving Alex to stare surprised at the phone receiver. Then he looked back to Heather.

"How much does he know?" Alex asked.

"It's not a question of how much he knows," she responded. "It's more a question of how much he actually believes, and how much he just goes along with. I guess I should tell you that story before we get there."

"He-" Alex paused, watching as the sign, "Welcome to Silent Hill," rose up on the right hand side of the road. He was mute for a few seconds afterwards, before reaching across the car and grasping her forearm tightly. Heather glanced at him, and realized he was doing it for support. "Silent Hill." he murmured.

"Yeah," Heather acknowledged as Alex looked anxiously up towards the sky. No fog. She reached her left hand down from the steering wheel and slipped it into the pocket of her cargo pants. There was only one piece of equipment Heather hadn't shared with Alex. The Seal of the Metatron was familiar and cool beneath her fingertips. She nodded to herself reassuringly, and prayed she wouldn't have to figure out how to use it.

Then she remembered something she'd wanted to tell him while he was on the phone.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"When you called Kaufmann, you referred to yourself as my friend."

He blinked at her hesitantly, recalling the way she'd glanced at him. "Aren't I?"

Heather rolled her eyes and said in a very dismissive tone, "Alex, keep one thing straight: You are _not_ my friend."

He blinked at her, surprised, confused, and stricken. Minutes away from Silent Hill and potentially all his inner demons, and with his childhood best friend still unaccounted for, Alex Shepherd was particularly vulnerable in that moment.

"...You are my _boyfriend_," she corrected sternly. "I'll forgive you _this_ time, but don't mess it up again."

The car was silent for a long moment. Then he reached over and smacked her upside the back of the head for being a jerk.


	22. Walter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This character was never originally supposed to be IN this story. I hated this character. To this day I don't know how he showed up or made me use him or pity him or even somehow like him. 
> 
> I guess the protagonists needed an ominous vague dubiously friendly hint-dropper, and he must have submitted his resume and I didn't have anyone else to fill the vacancy...

Henry Townshend found himself standing in the Toluca lighthouse. He had never been there, and would not have known his location had there been any other lighthouse he could possibly be standing in. The building was run-down and rotting, with diseased cracks tracing along the walls filled with gratuitous quantities of insect life. Henry looked around the building quietly, walking from room to room but finding nothing of interest.

The front door of the lighthouse was locked, and an unidentifiable corpse in a red outfit was splayed out over the secretary desk, attached to it by a partial cocoon of flesh, rot, and fiber, its legs splayed out lewdly and a host of white flowers growing from its face.

As he walked he saw that that that there was a room one might expect of a therapist, and that it too was occupied by a corpse cocooned to one of the chairs. This one was completely featureless, it was covered so heavily in white flowers. Henry tilted his head to the side and then moved to mount the lighthouse stairs. On the second floor, every visitor room was shut but one, and this one had a light on inside.

Henry walked forward, coming up beside the door and peering inside. At first he saw nothing, so he opened it further and took a single step in. What he saw stopped him short.

A man was standing there in a blue coat, long scraggly blonde hair draped about his shoulders. He was standing with his back to the door and was gazing down at an unoccupied bed.

Henry slowly backed up, trying to close the door silently behind him.

"She's here," Walter Sullivan said slowly, almost purring the words. Henry froze. Walter shifted, glanced over one shoulder at where Henry was standing, and smiled almost mischievously Townshend remained immobile. Walter was missing half his face; it was covered over in a black ooze. Similar layers of tar-like material pocketed his torso and wrapped around the end of one arm, turning the fingers into long claws. "She's brave."

Henry said nothing. Walter turned back towards the bed and then leaned over, placing his 'good' hand against the sheets. "I can feel her warmth," he murmured. "And... _His_..." he laughed the last word, as if he found something absurd.

"Heather?" Henry guessed, barely trusting his voice. Walter ought to have been dead; but then Silent Hill wasn't very picky on those details.

"Heather," Walter purred. Then he pulled back a little, and when he spoke again, his voice was uncertain, even a little lost. "She will _eat_ her."

"Who?" Henry asked, stepping forward despite his greater sense of caution.

"Mother. Sister. _Her_. Does it matter anymore? There isn't much of a 'who,'" he laughed bitterly. "Only that... Auntie Dahlia's will consume its own."

The resigned, laughing, hateful, adoring tone in Walter's voice gave Henry pause. He glanced from the bed back to the man in the blue coat, noting that the oily gobs appeared to be spreading. "How can I stop that?" he asked bluntly.

Walter spun towards him with a surprised look. Then he laughed. "You can't."

Henry looked at the gobs, then up at the man's half remaining face. "What's happening to you?"

Walter looked down at himself, then held out his arms and smiled at Henry. "Mother is unhappy with me. She eats me slowly, bit by bit. It will take a long time before I am with her, within her, again." He lowered his arms and smiled in a predatory fashion, tilting his head to the side. "How is Mrs. Townshend...?" he drawled slowly, "and Mica and Little Lyta?"

"That's interesting," Henry said slowly and curiously, "You called Alessa, 'Mother.'" Walter called many things Mother, but this was new. It seemed as if a line could be drawn, starting at his biological mother, heading to the room, moving up to the goddess, descending into Eileen, and then trickling off into Alessa. Odd. Had Walter's views affected _Valtiel's_ behavior?

"Or I was talking about Silent Hill," Walter disagreed.

"Are they different? You did say... that there wasn't much of a 'who' left."

The tall man pouted more and then turned away from Henry as if irritated by him, looking back to the unoccupied bed.

Henry tilted his head to the side. "You're drawn to Heather," he realized, "for the same kind of reasons."

"I remember the little Gillespie," he said slowly. "She was so cute in her little church dress. She was only my age..." He lifted his head and looked around the room. Then he took a hesitant, almost fearful step backwards as tar pool began to ooze out of cracks in the walls.

"What's happening?" Henry asked him.

"Tough love..." Walter mumbled. "Mother... is not quite happy with me..."

Henry looked rapidly around at the growing pools and then back to Walter. "Walter. Is there any way I can help Heather?"

Sullivan was quiet, watching mesmerized as the oozing pools grew and stretched outward from the walls, wiggling through the air like long black tongues.

"Walter!" Henry pressed. "You came here for a reason. _I'm_ here for a reason. What can I do to help her?"

The man looked slowly, almost fearfully over his shoulder, eyes settling on Henry. He was quiet a moment. Then he elected to speak. "Harry Mason," he hinted quickly. "And the marks of Samael."

The tendrils launched forward, grabbing at Walter, wrapping around him. He gasped and then burst out laughing and shrieking almost simultaneously, writhing and then going limp as the material gobbed around him and then pulled him apart into chunks. It was an unbelievably disturbing act, horrible in the same way cannibalism might have been. Henry stumbled backwards. Then a hole opened up beneath him and he was falling, falling.

He woke up beside Eileen and sat bolt upright, a cold sweat covering his body. He looked around his mundane bedroom, ignored the attentive Robbie Rabbit doll sitting upright on Eileen's hip, and then quickly lunged for the bedside table, scrambling for his mobile phone.

"Pick up," he pled, dialing a number as fast as he could.

* * *

The sun was just starting to rise when Alex first saw the lighthouse; he and Heather had left particularly early in the morning. He couldn't help but think the lighthouse simultaneously seemed a beacon of safety and a place of infinite danger. As with most things in Silent Hill (Heather's Metatron included) the lighthouse seemed to exist at the crossroads between two antithetical opposites. He was calmer now. Silent Hill was a decent-sized town and they would not be able to find Elle's location without doing some research. It might take a day or two to find her, though personally he hoped not; his anxiety was subdued for now, but he knew it wouldn't take long for it to resurface.

Lisa Garland waved at them from the secretary desk when they entered, and quickly paged Kauffman. Heather moved up to say hello to her as Alex lingered some distance behind, his eyes roving about the Lighthouse interior. Heather and Lisa greeted each other like old friends; chatting softly about her visit. "_Oh_," said Lisa in an approving tone, looking at Alex with surprised eyes. "You haven't introduced me to your new friend, Heather."

The Mason girl smiled, waving Alex forward and then snaking her arm about his waist. "This is Alex Shepherd," she told the secretary. "Alex, this is Lisa Garland. She knew my father."

Alex wondered at that, as Miss Garland didn't seem much older than he and Heather. Nevertheless he smiled and nodded at her in greeting. A moment later and Dr. Kaufmann had descended the staircase. He too approached Heather like they were old friends, and even gathered her up in a tight hug.

"Canada!" he protested. "I have to leave the office for less than a week, and when I come back you are in Canada!"

"Well something came up," Heather protested, amused.

"What sort of thing?"

"Eileen. She's good at blackmailing."

Kaufmann scowled and then looked curiously past her at Alex. Alex settled down their things and the two men shook one another by the hand. "It's good to finally meet you, Dr. Kaufmann," Alex said.

"Likewise, likewise. Come, I'll show both of you to your rooms. You can hang up your coats here or in the rooms if you'd like."

Heather wasn't sure she wanted to explain why she was packing so much heat in front of Lisa, so she made to follow Kaufmann. She was surprised when Alex halted him. "Actually," the younger man began, catching the doctor's attention, "we usually _share_ a room."

Lisa's eyes widened, and she gave Heather a look of, "Why haven't you told me this!?" Kaufmann blinked in surprise and looked to Heather for confirmation. The younger woman blushed for a moment, but then shrugged and leaned into her partner's side.

"He's right," she told both of them. "We don't sleep very well otherwise."

That, Alex thought, was very true. There was also the fact that it would be harder for Heather to disappear on him if she were sleeping in the same room as he. Elle was already missing; he didn't need to lose Heather, too. Even as he thought about this, Alex eased a protective arm around the woman, brushing his gloved fingertips through her hair.

_Elle..._

"Very well," Kaufmann said after a moment, and gestured for them to follow. "About your friend," he asked as the three of them walked. "Do you have any leads?"

"We think the Order kidnapped her," Heather explained. "Though we don't exactly know why."

"I can see why you are worried," Kaufmann responded. "Are you both prepared for what you might find?"

"Yes," they answered almost simultaneously. He glanced back at them and then opened a balcony room overlooking the lake. The couple settled their things down.

"It's still in the early morning hours," Kaufmann decided. "You can wait for lunch or head out to town."

Heather still wasn't sure she wanted to show off so many weapons, and Kaufmann gave her the perfect excuse not to take off her coat. "I think we'll head into town," she told him. "I'm surprised you're not all over Alex asking questions, you've wanted to meet him for so long now..."

Kaufmann looked at the floor for a moment and then lifted his eyes to Heather. "I don't have to," he told her. "I've seen him."

Heather frowned. "What?"

"Your demigod," he answered, immediately gaining the attention of both young people. Kaufmann looked over them for a moment and then elaborated: "He followed you to the restaurant that night... He wasn't particularly pleased with me. That's why I took the holiday... not because of a head cold. And now I regret doing it."

Heather stood immobile for a long moment, before taking a hesitant step towards the doctor. "Did he hurt you?" she asked.

"No," Kaufmann answered slowly. "Though I learned many things part of me wishes had stayed buried. We'll talk over dinner tonight, when you return safely from the town."

"Do you have an idea where we might start looking for Elle?" Alex asked, pressing past Heather.

Kaufmann regarded the young man quietly for a moment, reading the lines of his face, the posture of his body, the tone of his voice. Then he shook his head. "I do not," he answered. "But I suspect the town will lead you to her one way or another. Be safe, both of you. I'll be in my office."

He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Alex glanced to a shocked-looking Heather. She gazed at the closed door for a moment longer and then slowly stepped backwards and sat upon the bed. "I keep putting people in danger," she mumbled.

Alex crossed his arms over his chest. "Blaming yourself for the indirect and unforeseeable consequences of your well-meaning actions is not helping us find Elle," he told her.

Heather grimaced. She looked hesitantly at Alex, whose face smoothed out into a mellower tone at her expression.

"No one is angry with you, Heather," he said in a gentler way. "Every time you think they are, it stops you in your tracks. Blaming yourself doesn't fix things. Let's find Elle and get out of here."

Heather was quiet a moment before nodding. She leaned over her suitcase and then extracted a map of silent hill, pulling it out and laying it flat over the bed. Alex blinked and moved to join her, looking down at many locations he'd occasionally visited as a child, and many he had never heard of. "There's a phone book next to where I had the map," she told him. "Dig that out. We'll use that too. We have to come up with some locations to investigate, or else we'll just be wandering helplessly through town with five guns, a combat knife, and a katana on our persons."

Heather's cell phone rang. She ignored it for the first ring, then the second. Alex was the one who finally picked it up and tossed it to her. She saw who was calling, flipped open the phone, and pressed it to her ear.

"Henry?" she asked.

"Heather!" the man exclaimed (and for Henry, using the verb 'exclaimed' said quite a lot). "There may not be-... time. I ... one of my surreal night-..., and I was in the Toluca Light... _Otherworld_... Walt... was there!"

"Henry? Henry slow down, you're breaking up a little-" Heather told him, standing up and moving towards the balcony.

"He ga... me two hint... Heather! He... Harry... and... Marks of Samae-"

The phone cut to static. In that moment, Alex was seized by panic. He saw the cloud rushing across the balcony of the Toluca lighthouse and he bolted up to her side, wrapping both arms around her and hugging her tightly to him. The couple stared as the cloud rolled slowly across their line of sight, obscuring the view from the lighthouse balcony. The outside world became scarcely more than four feet of marshmallow colored fog.

A long moment passed in silence.

"Well," Heather said, "can't say I didn't see that coming." She turned, pulling slightly out of Alex Shepherd's death grip on her person, and looked up at her horrified partner. He was still looking out at the fog. "Change of plans. Let's go wander helplessly through town for a bit. Our odds of randomly accosting someone with knowledge on Elle's whereabouts have just risen dramatically."

Alex Shepherd looked at her, his mouth dripping in a perplexed gape. Heather smirked, and wondered why she felt no fear at all. In fact, she felt alive. Strong. Ready to take on the world—the fog world, _and_ any possible incarnation of hell. Perhaps it was because there was finally something for her to do about Silent Hill, to take the bull by its horns, for the first in almost a decade. "Come on honey," she chirped, slipping her hand into his. "I'm sure we've got cultists to bludgeon."

He followed her tug mutely as she pulled him towards the bedroom door.

* * *

Henry looked quietly at his phone. He called Heather's number again.

"The number you are trying to reach is not currently available."

He tried again.

"The number you are-"

This time, he tried Alex's number.

"The num-"

Again. Again again again again. His agitation became obvious and Eileen stirred to wakefulness.

"Honey?" she asked him, rubbing her eyes blearily. "What's wrong? What-"

Henry threw the phone so hard it shattered against the opposite wall.

Eileen jumped to a seated position, instantly wide awake. "Honey!" she exclaimed, turning to look at him.

Mr. Townshend dropped his face into his arms, shaking violently.

"Honey? Honey! What's wrong!?" she cried, reaching over and embracing him from behind. "You're scaring me!"

Henry shook his head and then lifted it out of his hands. "It has them," he answered, in a tone that made her blood turn cold. He was quiet a long moment, but Eileen didn't say anything. When no questions were forthcoming, he stood up and walked quietly into the kitchen. There was nothing he could do. Nothing; absolutely nothing. He started to make breakfast, because it was the one realm in which he was anything other than completely helpless.

As he cooked he turned over and over again in his mind the words that Walter had used, the toothless aura the man had possessed, his fearful expression, and oddest of all- that he seemed interested in helping either Heather or Henry himself. Why? What had become of the man's soul after the nullification of the 21 sacraments? Before, the naive assumption was that Walter was gone/dead/removed from existence/gone from sight; gone from mind. But now...

Why had Henry assumed Walter would provide him with a hint? Why did Henry feel Heather was in more danger than Elle or Alex? Why had Sullivan given those hints? For what purpose? To help? To get something? Or just because Silent Hill was playing games, and Walter was a familiar and English-speaking pawn with which to send Henry messages?

Or was Silent Hill Walter's hell?

* * *

Kaufmann was standing at the lighthouse door. He had opened it and was staring out into fog as thick as molasses Lisa was by his side, looking bewildered. "Freak weather," she noted. Kaufmann shook his head.

When their visitors looked downstairs, Heather seemed quite surprised at Kaufmann's presence.

"It's begun," the doctor said.

"You're here," Heather noted in surprise. Kaufmann nodded.

"And I know why," he told her, "but I doubt it would be of much use to you at the moment."

"What? Of course we're here," Lisa protested. "Why wouldn't we be? What's going on?"

Kaufmann looked at the secretary almost affectionately. "Lisa? I'll explain later. Could you put some water on for tea?" The secretary blinked in confusion but then nodded and headed for the lighthouse kitchen. Alex watched her go mutely. His fingers tightened where they were interlaced with Heather's, and she squeezed reassuringly back. The doctor himself turned and looked back out through the fog. "Are you two going out there?" he asked.

"Yeah," Heather answered. "Got an idea where to look, yet?"

Kaufmann considered his answer. "I heard about some changes in the leadership of the chapel on the lower eastern side of the city," he said after a time. "You can take our canoe. It would be a lot quieter and more discrete than your car... And faster than walking. Though I am not yet sure how distant this is from the real world, or how close it is to the _other_."

Heather stared at him for a moment. "You said you saw Valtiel that night," she said slowly. "You gonna let me in on that? You're being kinda mysterious."

"I will later," Kaufmann answered. "It doesn't have a bearing on your quest, and will waste time."

"Ya know there might not be a 'later,'" Heather reminded him. "People have a tendency to go missing right before revealing important pieces of information to me."

Kaufmann looked back at her. "This place, this lighthouse, is safe," he told her suddenly. "You should be able to return here and rest without fear of the cult as long as you are in the fog," he told her.

"How could you know that?" Heather asked in surprise.

"I came to a great many realizations after my encounter with your demigod. This lighthouse is your beacon. For whatever reason. Silent Hill will maintain it as such."

"Weeks ago you didn't even believe in this shit," she muttered, surprised.

"That, my dear, was _weeks_ ago. And as to that, part of me always _did_ believe you, Cheryl Heather Mason." He moved from the door and came up to her, touching her shoulders fondly and looking into her face. "Be safe. Both of you. Keep your phone on hand and keep track of the time. Try to be back by nightfall."

The mention of time surprised her; Heather had never known the fog to change much. "You think it'll come?" she asked.

"I'm sure it will," he decided. "Goodluck."

Heather nodded slowly. She gave the older man a hug, releasing Alex's hand temporarily. The Shepherd boy flinched as she did so, reaching out hesitantly towards her before holding still and waiting for her to finish. When she was done, she slipped her hand back into his. He never said a word. He was much too overwhelmed.

"You aren't afraid of what's out there," Kaufmann noted as they walked towards the door. Heather blinked at him and then shook her head.

"No," she answered honestly.

"He is."

Heather looked to Alex. "I..." The soldier squeezed her hand, silently promising that he would be alright, but that at the moment he couldn't bring himself to talk.

Kaufmann nodded understandingly. "You don't fear Silent Hill's horrors, Heather Mason; you only fear being helpless to face them. Be careful: It will exploit that weakness somehow, eventually."

She nodded. Then, with Alex in close pursuit, she headed out into the fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alex isn't handling things as well as Heather. But then she's the snarky sarcastic girl who openly admitted she was numb to Silent Hill's horrors ;) And he was only able to handle them because he was repressing memories.
> 
> If he had half a wit to his name at the moment, Alex would probably mention to someone that he has a phobia of being out on a foggy lake in a paddle boat with the people he loves most in the world XD The last time that happened, he accidentally killed them!
> 
> Walter, WTF? I don't like you. You aren't a monster, you're a person, that makes you uninteresting. GTFO of my story. ... ... Stop giving me that face. Stop it. G'ah... Okay, so maybe in the process of researching The Room I came to like you. Just a little. Maybe. It's the doll thing, really. 
> 
> We'll blame Henry.


	23. Suddenly: Toddlers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In cause you didn't follow Silent Hill Homecoming, Alex's story—and questions about his exact mental health and whether he a) joined the army or b) had a breakdown and was institutionalized—is firmly rooted in a traumatic event where his little brother drowned out on a lake, so...

They were halfway across the lake before Alex Shepherd pulled both paddles into the boat, turned about, gripped the edge of the waterborne vehicle, and vomited over the side. Heather clambered towards him, grabbing him about the middle to prevent him from falling into the water and holding him steady as he gagged and voided his stomach. When he was done he coughed and panted for a few moments, spitting the residue out of his mouth, before finally sitting back up and sagging into her, wrapping both arms around her frame.

"Alex?"

He shook his head, hugging her, _needing_ her to be there safe in his arms. He was beginning to understand what Henry and Kaufmann had both meant when they'd spoken of Heather's strength and bravery. She really _wasn't_ afraid; but she wasn't giddy, either. She moved and spoke and acted with the self-assured gait of an expert, one comfortable in her domain. It was eerie. He didn't understand it, and to some small extent he feared it.

It took some time embracing her before he could lean forward and ease her back onto her bench. He studied her face and stroked her hair for a few moments. "We have a task to perform," she told him, "and it will let us go if we finish it. It may not be the task we think it is. But there is always a way back out into the world." She lifted a hand; stroked his face. "We'll find her."

He nodded, and took back up the paddles. She offered to help him but he shook his head and silently continued to row.

* * *

The streets of southeastern Silent Hill were deserted. Everything was muted in color, and gray particles like ash or snow drifted through the air. There were no people and, for the moment, there were no monsters. The couple walked quietly down the road, hand in hand, fingers interlaced. Alex had drawn his combat knife, and Heather's hand rested on the hilt of her katana.

There were several places of worship in Silent Hill, all different in outward appearance and management, but most with innermost chapels devoted to the Order. There was the Balkan Church, the Church of the Holy Way, the Church of Rebirth, and others. One convenient attribute of Silent Hill's cult was its utter inability to cooperate; there were countless sects, and each sect was known for constant infighting.

With so much chaos and disorder afoot, it sometimes baffled Heather how the Order could continue to exist at all. But then with so much supernatural overflow coursing through the town, it was undeniable that something dark, something powerful, something merciless was watching over them. In a way, these arguments were less a debate of philosophy, and more a frantic conglomerate of tactics levied so as not to be eaten alive.

"This is St. Maria's Monastery," Heather told him. "The Holy Way is west from here, in the central district. We'll go there next if this turns up nothing. Maria's is Catholic, at least on the face of things. It even has a nunnery."

Alex nodded and released her hand, stepping towards the monastery gates. He paused however, when something moved in the fog. Whatever it was it stayed just out of their sight range for several moments, before finally scuttling closer.

It appeared to be two arms and two legs, hog tied together at the wrists and ankles by twine. This juncture formed the core of the monster, as the limbs had been amputated from whatever body they had once belonged to, and their bloody stumps had been inset with circular saw blades. These toothed weapons had become the monster's spider-like legs. The fingers were latched in the seaweed-like hair of a deformed and globular head, eyeless with a distended and gaping black mouth.

Alex grimaced. As it rushed towards them he calmly pulled the shotgun off his shoulder, sheathed his combat knife, lifted the weapon, aimed, and then blew the dangling head full of shot. The force of the weapon threw the monster backwards, and it crumpled up on itself, the rotary saw blades smacking together with a metallic clang.

The air was still for a moment as they waited, making sure the thing was quite dead. Then Alex lowered the shotgun and grabbed Heather's arm by the wrist. "Come," he said, and then tugged her pointedly towards the monastery doors.

Heather and Alex found the monastery doors locked, and were just about to search for another entrance when, much to their surprise and suspicion, a nun opened the doorway and permitted them in. "I was wondering when you'd come," she said, and though her voice did not sound particularly ominous, both young folk were immediately on their guard. Then she went on to confound them, "It is running about the rafters, frightening the children, and getting dirt on _everything_. Are you sure you'll be able to get rid of it? It's utterly _filthy_."

"Erm," Heather hazarded, knowing that oftentimes Silent Hill manifestations ended up dying in fairly gruesome ways. "We can try."

The nun smiled and began leading the way into the church. She seemed to truly noticed Alex for the first time when she glanced back at them, as she gave a soft, "Oh my," and made a small sign of the cross across her breast. "You are one who's come far, my son. Though, heavens be praised, it seems you have not wandered as far from the light as others..."

"Others?" Alex murmured

"Yes. One lost soul came here fairly recently, by the name of..." she frowned as if the name was on the tip of her tongue but she simply could not remember it; "well never mind who... but he had strayed so far that he could scarcely recognize himself."

Alex glanced to Heather, who shrugged and continued to follow. They came into the central hall of worship, with beautiful stained glass windows and a hand-painted ceiling. A roar shrieked high and vicious across the air, and the nun looked upward with a dismayed sigh. "_There _it is, the wretched gargoyle," she grumbled.

"I know that roar!" Heather gasped, rushing ahead of Alex and releasing his hand. She came into the sanctuary and looked around. A very familiar creature was jumping anxiously around the ceiling, roaring and hissing and raking his claws over the artwork. Alex came up swiftly beside her. "Valtiel!" she called.

The boogieman's attention riveted on her almost immediately. He shook violently for a moment, spasming, twitching, writhing. Then, with an almost delighted coo, he began climbing for one of the walls, padding effortlessly over the elegant windows and then dropping to the earth. Heather moved to meet him as he climbed down with Alex just behind her.

Valtiel actually leaped at Heather, knocking the air out of her and causing Alex to hoist up the shotgun threateningly. But the Metatron caught his footing before they fell, hugging to Heather and purring gratuitously rubbing his face all over her hair and shoulder. Heather grunted and laughed, trying to wriggle free of his hold. "Valtiel!" she hummed, pleased. Something was wet under her fingertips. She pulled her hand away from his shoulders and saw the fingertips wet with blood. Her eyes widened. "What happened? Did you find Elle? Are you hurt?!"

Alex slowly eased the shotgun down, as Heather pulled free of the metatron's hug and tried to examine his arm. Valtiel cooed softly, his tongue reaching out to brush her bangs from her forehead.

"Well at least you got it down," The nun said gratefully, "do you think you can get it out of the church?"

"Hold on a second!" Heather called back. "It just looks like a few slices," she then said in a quieter voice. "Valtiel, what happened? Did you find her?"

Metatron looked to Alex. The young man was definitely uncomfortable with this situation, but he'd lowered his gun and was trusting in his partner to know better than he. Valtiel looked about Heather's person and then clasped a hand around one of her arms, and pulled her hand down to rest on her Katana. Heather frowned and drew the blade out. Metatron glanced up its length and then took her arm and tugged her gently towards the back of the church, taking several hunched steps in that direction.

"Figures its got business in the church," the nun grumbled to herself, but didn't move to stop them. Alex headed towards the back of the church without hesitation; coming up beside Heather and her monster.

"Is she alright?" Alex asked of the thing. The demon snapped his twitching head in Alex's direction as if surprised that Alex was addressing him directly. Then the creature answered the question anyway by hissing and giving a vigorous shake of his head.

Alex's eyes widened. Oh God. "Is she alive?" his voice cracked.

The Metatron cooed, and all three of them hurried forward at an intensified pace.

* * *

Valtiel released Heather's hand and took to the roof as soon as the ceilings were low enough. Beyond the sanctuary the halls were relatively empty, but Alex and Heather had no illusions it would remain that way. They hurried under the Metatron, Alex with his shotgun and Heather with her katana drawn. Valtiel hissed as he rounded a corner. Heather led with her sword, slicing away two front legs from another Amputee-Saw monster, and then dividing the distended head in half.

A warning sound from above drew Alex's attention to a side doorway as he rounded the corner behind Heather, and he was already aiming for the open passage when a third one of the monsters skittered through.

Alex popped in another set of rounds as they walked forward, leading the way with Heather beside him. The Boogieman led them from above.

"If you find any rats," the nun called after them, "flush them out for me, would you, dears?"

"Who is vi-si-tor...-ing?" called a tremulous and itty-bitty child's voice from one of the rooms ahead of them. Alex froze and lifted his head. There was a tapestry depicting the mother Mary draped against the wall ahead of them. Valtiel was right above it. He cooed at them and then disappeared into a ventilation shaft straight over the art piece.

"That voice," Alex mumbled.

Heather frowned. "A puzzle?" she muttered under her breath, and then perked up as a young boy, perhaps only two years old, poked his head out from one of the many doorways. Alex gaped.

"Josh...?"

"Ow!" shrieked a female voice from past another door, quickly followed by the yelp of a young boy. Heather turned around to see the hallway was empty of Amputee-Saw bodies, and two little children were running through the halls behind her. Something tugged on Alex's leg and he looked down, face white. A little girl was holding a muddy doll up towards him. "Jo-ey 'trew my dolly in 'da mud!" baby Scarlet whined, tears on her face. "Can you fix her?"

The nun had come up behind Heather and Alex and was trying to calm down or otherwise reassure the children. Heather stared into the room to her left, where a five year old Harry Mason and a six year old- well it was hard to say _who_ that was exactly, but Heather was banking on Travis Grady- were fighting over a toy truck. Travis kept trying to force Harry to take a doll instead.

The nun ushered the children forward, taking Scarlet's doll and promising to wash it. She called Travis and Harry (the former had gotten the truck, the latter the doll) and soon was ushering all the children into a large play room. Alex and Heather shared puzzled and slightly horrified looks and then followed. Each reached for the other's hand, intertwining their fingers as they hesitantly approached the play room.

Children ran excitedly around the room, playing with little airplanes, trucks, dolls, blocks, and other toys. There was a rocking chair resting in the rear of the room with a warm cushion and a blanket draped over the back. A tiny Eileen was sitting on top of an equally tiny and very confused Henry, and had stolen his carrot sticks. A blonde child who may possibly have been James was the object of a tug-of-war between two girls who appeared to be twins, and whom had different colored bows in their hair to tell them apart. There were other children there as well, ones Alex and Heather did not know.

Alex was shaking, looking at Joey, Scarlet, Nora, and a perplexed baby Joshua, the latter of which was watching him with big and curious eyes. Two children of about three years of age hurried up to the nun, one a child with blonde highlights and her hair in pigtails, the other a boy with cat's eyes.

"Auntie!" the little girl whined. "Alex keeps pulling my pigtails!"

"Cheryl keeps pinching me!" the boy whined back.

"Only cause you pulled my pigtails!"

"Did not!" protested Little Alex.

"Did too!" argued Little Heather/Cheryl.

"Did _not_!"

"Did _too_!"

"Well _you_ have cooties!"

Little Heather/Cheryl stuck out her tongue at him.

The nun hushed both of them and told them to go take their seats. Heather and Alex glanced at one another, Alex shaking, and Heather perplexed. Then they each looked back across the room. Alex's gaze fell immediately to Joshua, where the little boy was clumsily getting to his feet, wiggling with the lack of coordination that came with being only two years old. The older Shepherd boy took in a sharp breath and then stepped towards him. Suddenly there was no Heather- he didn't even feel her fingers leave his own- there was only the buzz of childish laughter and the little boy with Joshua's innocent face.

"Josh...?" Alex wondered aloud. The little boy gazed up at him for a moment and then began tottering forward, lifting his pudgy little arms. The soldier dropped to one knee in order to meet him.

* * *

Heather looked down as a little hand tugged on her own, and nearly jumped at what she saw. A little boy, no more than four, was standing there looking up at her with pale green eyes. He was adorably round with baby fat, and his dark blonde hair was cut in a tidy bowl. He was dressed in a blue striped shirt and had lifted his other hand cutely to his mouth.

Heather stared at him in amazement for a moment and then slowly knelt down. The little boy, who appeared to be of slightly nervous disposition, scuttled backwards a bit and released her hand. She peered at him curiously. "Walter?" she asked.

The boy smiled past his cute little hands, obviously pleased to be recognized. He stepped hesitantly towards her again. He was so tiny. "Are you Heather?" he asked her.

Heather nodded, and he lowered his hands to behind his back and smiled even more.

"I _knew_ you would come," the boy said happily. "I dreamed it."

Heather's brow frowned in confusion. "I- Walter... why are you here?"

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well... you're not..." Heather paused and then touched her temple slowly, surprised. The fog had come so suddenly that Heather had almost forgotten... Her eyes narrowed further. _Henry called me_, she remembered suddenly. _He said... something about the lighthouse... about a nightmare and Walter? What did he say?_

"I'm not what?" Little Walter asked, perplexed.

"Well, you're not _mine_," Heather answered, a little confused. Had Henry really visited Toluca Lighthouse by dream? Walter was Henry and Eileen's monster, not Heather's. But come to think of it, dreams were frequently the means by which Henry had experienced the _otherworld_.

While she was busy thinking and not busy watching her words, Walter jerked back as if struck. A very sad frown creased the toddler's forehead and tugged down at the corners of his mouth.

"... I'm... not...?" he whimpered.

"_No_," enunciated a voice. Heather spun around, eyes wide, to find the rocking chair at the end of the room was now occupied. A forty year old Alessa Gillespie rested in its embrace, dressed now in the garb Heather Mason had worn on her first trip to Silent Hill. Her eyes were black pits leaking tar-like fluid, and her fingers were tipped in long black claws, webbed at every digit but the thumb and pinky. Her flesh was burned and seemed to merge with the material of the rocker, blanket, and cushion. Her long black hair spiraled about her with a life of its own, till the tips spun into grasping, gummy, dripping black tendrils.

"You're _mine_," Alessa purred.

Little Walter rocked backwards on his heels. He stood up so straight that he stumbled a little, and nearly fell on his bum. Heather reached out to grab his arm.

"I take it back," Heather said, tugging the boy up to her side and pressing his fingers to her pant-leg. Walter blinked in surprise and then hugged against her as Heather stood, dropping her katana and pulling out both handguns to point them at the apparition in the rocking chair. "Stay behind me, kiddo."

* * *

Baby Joshua tottered right into Alex's arms, and the soldier couldn't help but hug him tight, cradling the little brother to his chest. Deep down he knew it wasn't real... but it was so sweet.

"Who are you?" demanded a grumpy voice. Alex looked up (through more than a few tears) to see the younger version of himself standing there. "Are you going to adopt us?"

Alex laughed mournfully.

"Well?"

The soldier shook his head. "I would if I could," he managed, looking down into his own eyes. "Is your name Alex?" he asked.

The boy frowned. "Put him _down_," he demanded, one hand clenched tightly at his side, the other pointing at Joshua. The older Alex grimaced and shook a little. Then, painfully slowly, he eased the toddler to the ground and released him. Baby Joshua blinked, looking confused. Alex gave him a little push towards his diminutive doppelganger, and Little Alex hugged his brother protectively.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the older child looked up at Alex again. "Yeah," he answered the earlier question. "My name is Alex. What is yours?"

"My name is Alex, too," the soldier responded. "Alex, do you have a friend named Elle?"

The younger boy frowned. "I did," he mumbled angrily "Some people came and took her. They said they wanted to adopt her, but I don't think it's true."

"Do you know where they took her?" the adult asked.

"Auntie said they brought her to the south wing to write up papers, and she didn't look happy about it. But she smiled so I wouldn't worry," Little Alex told him. "I don't know what that means, though, because I don't think there _is_ a south wing. I found a secret passage, so maybe that was it? But it was dark, and I didn't have a flashlight... I got lost and Cheryl had to shout for me till I found my way out again. We got in a lot of trouble."

"Where was the secret passage?" Alex asked, trying not to look at baby Joshua.

"It's behind the big Mary tape-... whatever it's called. But to open it you have to go find the right pendant on the next floor. And _then_ you have to say the Bogeyman Rhyme," he added this last in a low voice. "I don't think they adopted Elle at all. And Auntie said they might want to 'adopt' me, too. What is Josh gonna do if they take me? He cried a lot even when I just got lost in the passageway."

Alex nodded. "I'm going to find Elle," he promised, "and I won't let them take you." He swallowed hard. "You take good care of your brother, okay, Alex? Be... be careful around water."

Little Alex frowned and nodded slowly.

A gunshot disrupted everything. Alex jumped to his feet. The whole room changed suddenly from a bright and colorful children's playroom to a dark and badly damaged chamber of concrete. The rocking chair, bare of upholstery was now home to a black and humanoid cocoon, with lashing tendrils growing from its featureless head. The Medusa-like thing seemed immobile, or maybe even tethered to the chair, but the tendrils were more than long enough to stretch across the entire room.

Heather—Heather!—had both handguns drawn and was shooting at it. She ducked under one tendril, swatted aside the other, and then put a final bullet in the creature, which lit up as if it had been ignited by a match, and then crumbled up on itself and collapsed into ash. Heather didn't keep firing, but she stared at the body almost glassy-eyed. Alex stumbled back to his feet and came back to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking gently.

"Heather?" he asked, rubbing tears from his face.

The Mason girl blinked rapidly and then looked around. She took in the state of the room and then felt down to her pant-leg where Little Walter had just been clutching her. Her eyes opened in surprise not at the absence of the ghostly child, but rather at the Seal of the Metatron which had been partially drawn out from its pocket. Heather grasped the Talisman tightly.

_Harry Mason and the Marks of Samael,_ Henry had said. Heather wasn't sure what that meant or why the Seal of the Metatron would be of significance in this upcoming rescue. She also didn't know why she'd just seen Little Walter Sullivan. It filled her with a sense of uneasiness.

"What did you see?" Alex asked after a moment.

"Walter Sullivan," Heather answered truthfully. "Though I've no idea why. You?"

"I talked to myself," he laughed hoarsely, "and apparently there's a passage beyond the panting of Mary, but we have to grab a pendant and recite a rhyme to open it."

Heather nodded as she stooped to pick up her katana; "Let's get to it."

Alex nodded, but when he moved to follow Heather out of the room he paused suddenly, and looked back at the empty confines. Josh... Heather glanced at him. There was a moment of silence.

"Aauunttieee," Heather chimed suddenly in a nasally voice, "Alex keeps pulling my piiiig tailllsss!"

A weak smile worked its way over Alex's face, and he turned away from the door. "That's just his way of telling you he likes you," the soldier whispered, wrapping an arm about her as they walked and squeezing her tight. Heather replaced her guns and hefted her katana. Alex pulled the shotgun back off his shoulder. They needed to move quickly if Valtiel's earlier agitation was any sign.


	24. Scolding

"I'm just saying," Heather intoned as they headed through the secret passage, their flashlights leading the way, "that was the _creepiest_ and most messed up nursery rhyme I have ever heard. No wonder you are so psychologically traumatized.

"_I'm_ psychologically traumatized?" he asked incredulously. "I think the pot is calling the kettle black!"

"Your parents leaned over your cradle and crooned about a Bogeyman ripping off your limbs to get you to sleep at night," she reminded him dryly.

"Your mother lit you on fire!"

"Hey! Hey now, low blow. I am not Alessa!" she argued back, not mentioning his parents had intended to drown him; Dhalia Gillespie hadn't been Heather's mother, and Heather hadn't experienced any attachment to her the way Alex had clearly been attached to Adam and Lillian Shepherd.

"Guess that makes us fire and water," he noted, guessing where her head had gone anyway.

Heather was just about to rib him, but he lifted up a hand to quiet her for a moment. They heard a growling and hissing ahead of them.

"Is that your Metatron?"

Heather nodded. They pushed their way through the dark passage, following the sounds through a maze of twisting passageways, and then finally emerged in a small chapel. Valtiel was perched in a corner, hissing and spitting at a long scrap of paper on the ground. "Valtiel!" Metatron turned towards them at the sound of her voice. Heather hurried towards him. Alex glanced at the paper, confused.

Valtiel was sporting a few extra slices, the most notable of which was across his nonexistent face. He jumped down to all fours on the ground and nuzzled up against Heather's legs. She leaned over to appraise the injury, and grimaced as she wiped blood from his cheek. "The hell?" she wondered aloud.

Alex took a step or two closer to the paper. It appeared to be a long and badly worn scroll, sans rollers, with runes just visible across the length of it. And for that matter, it was incredibly long. The paper spiraled off away from Alex, draped over a pew, pooled at the bottom of a wall, and then disappeared up into the rafters. He nudged the end with his foot.

The paper quivered and then snapped back away from him, zipping back over the pew and up the wall like a roll-up window blind operating in overtime. Alex stumbled backwards with an oath. Valtiel hissed and leaped onto a pew, staring after where it had disappeared to.

"The hell?" Heather asked, looking from the metatron to Alex. The latter shook his head, not knowing.

"There was a scroll here," Alex answered, "but it's gone now."

Heather frowned, looking worriedly at Valtiel and reaching over to touch the gash on his face. The angel seemed to glance at her and then snorted and leaped back up to the opposite wall. He crawled up the stonework and up near the front of the chapel.

"There doesn't look to be any other entrance, or exit," Alex noted, looking around the chapel as he came up beside Heather.

Heather nodded. "I think he's about to make one."

"How?"

She watched as Valtiel felt over one of the support beams in a very gestural way, dabbing his gloved hand about it before finally settling his fingers down on a stone. There was a moment of stillness. Then a spider web of rust began to creep out from where his fingers were touching. The paint started peeling back from the surrounding walls, and dripping off like molted feathers. The wall decayed, corroded, sank in, and revealed a dull red wheel- a valve- inset in a metal pipe.

Valtiel lifted a hand and touched the valve slowly, almost as if in a caress, before gripping it firmly in one hand and twisting his body around to look at Heather. Alex had jumped closer to her at the sight of melting walls, and now slipped his fingers into hers.

"I'm pretty sure Valtiel can control shifts to the Otherworld," Heather explained. "Are you ready for this?"

Alex didn't say anything. He pressed his shoulder into hers, and his fingers tightened. She gave Valtiel a nod. The Metatron nodded in return and began to turn the valve. Heather and Alex pressed back to back, hands still intertwined, as the world disintegrated, folded open, rotted apart around them.

They found themselves standing in a rotten cavern filled with bent crosses, in which the walls were lined with severed limbs that reached out eagerly towards the couple. Ahead of them, flush against their 'cavern,' was a ghastly passage thick with severed pipes and torn metal grates. A female body was impaled on either side of the entry way; one had its flesh spread out into bat wings behind it; the other's entrails spread out into loops that appeared like a semblance of feathers. Their chests had been branded with cattle prods, in the shape of the Seal of the Metatron. One wore a red cloth hood, the other a golden one. Emblazoned over the entry way was a bold, red Halo of the Sun, painted in their blood.

"Oh goodie," Heather murmured, looking up at her wall-climber suspiciously. She didn't believe Valtiel would lead her into danger, exactly, but the irony of the situation was rather bizarre.

Alex gagged and put his forearm over his mouth. He looked up at the corpses, each rotten and buzzing with flies. "That... that symbol on their chests," he grimaced, "where have I seen it before?"

"It's on his shoulders," Heather supplied. "This place must belong to the Sect of Valtiel." Something else was bothering her, flitting on the edge of her consciousness. This display had eerie similarities to Heather's painting of the goddess- a painting born from Heather's frustrated attempt to make sense of the cult, and for which she had taken great artistic and theological liberties. The wings? The hoods? Branding both figures with the same seal? The more she thought about the painting the more she freaked herself out, so she put it out of her mind with great force.

Alex looked at her with wide eyes, and then looked up at the boogieman, who appeared highly agitated and was twitching rapidly, crawling back and forward between several bars over and over again as if in a high state of alarm or excitement.

"Valtiel?" Heather called, finally gaining some insight into why Valtiel might be so upset. "Are you going to be okay leading us through here?"

The monstrous creature paused, twitching violently in place. He looked at her, but his 'gaze' seemed unfocused, unsteady, for all that it was an imaginary gaze to begin with. He was twitching too violently, too randomly.

"Valtiel?" she called worriedly, stepping away from Alex and coming up underneath the monster. "Valtiel, _look_ at me..."

The metatron looked uncertainly down at her and started to descend the wall.

"We need to get to Elle fast," Alex told her, looking horrified from the bodies to the monster. "If this is the Sect of Valtiel, then this kidnapping was to 'punish' her for leaving the Order." Valtiel shrunk back up into the pipe work.

"Valtiel!" Heather called unhappily, now quite worried. "What's wrong?"

"Heather..."

"Are you okay?" she pleaded with the monster, who seemed to be calming down again at the sound of her voice. "Val-"

"Heather!" Alex shouted.

Heather nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around to stare at Alex Shepherd. The soldier came up to her, grasping her arm and pulling her back from where Valtiel was huddling up in the corner. "Alex? What are you-?"

"It can't lead us any farther," Alex told her grimly, tugging her back.

"But-"

Alex shook his head vigorously. "Angel or Alessa-Delusion, you call it _Valtiel_. The cultists are going to kill her in _its_ honor. I don't want to know what might happen if you force it inside that church!"

Heather grimaced, staring up at the creature who had been her nearly constant companion for months. She observed how the metatron was shaking, how his hands clasped and unclasped, how his limbs moved in a highly gestural and puppet-like way. She thought to Kaufmann's words concerning Valtiel's formation. There was every chance Valtiel _was_ heavily influenced by outside belief; but to see it raw and painful in the angel's features was something else entirely. It felt like she was watching a violent spat within the confines of a multiple-personality disorder.

Alex tugged her and she let him, backing away from the metatron. "We'll be back," she promised the angel. Metatron made a mid-range pained noise, bordering on a wail, but he did not move to join her. She didn't stop watching him, even as Alex tugged her towards the putrid entrance and the two of them were slipping inside.

* * *

The Otherworld Church was large inside; though the vast quantities of dangerous-looking debris suggested that if the building had a real world counterpart it had long been permitted to fall into disrepair. There was little room to maneuver, and the first time Heather and Alex turned a corner to find a massive Siam waiting for them, they found very little space to back up into. It took several shotgun bolts to the head before rearing up and catching itself on the hooks and barbs of the debris above it. Heather grimaced and stepped forward to slice open its abdomen.

_Looked like a Closer_, she thought as the body flopped backwards, entrails leaking out, crushing the tumor-like body strapped to its back.

"That's one of my monsters," Alex said, coming up and stomping hard on the writhing creature's head. It went still.

"Well it's good to see boobs aren't all you fantasize about," she decided, noting that the male Siam twin had been carrying its useless feminine portion.

He gave her a flat and unimpressed look.

"No, no. Good to see you fantasize about actually doing all the hard work, too," she teased with a terrible grin, taking his hand as he helped her step over the downed body without hooking herself on any broken pipes.

He might have said something in retaliation, but the two of them heard a feminine shriek somewhere ahead of them. They shared a look and then bolted forward, dodging under debris and around pieces of shattered glass until they at last emerged into a room that was clear of debris. It had even been spruced up a bit, with decrepit and unidentifiable paintings hanging from the wall. There were two Amputee-Saw monsters that Alex took out swiftly with his rifle, and a third on which Heather used her Uzi; but there was no time for jokes about workloads. Ahead of the couple stretched two passages, one to the left, one to the right, and the couple spread out to try and figure out which one the scream had come from.

"I don't hear her anymore," Heather grimaced in frustration,

Alex had found a strange candle that looked like it might be significant. He glanced back to Heather to tell her about the find, but suddenly realized that the two of them were at least ten yards apart. He hadn't left her side by such a distance since they'd first arrived in Silent Hill. The space terrified him. His eyes opened wide and he started towards her.

There was a loud bang from above them, and then something unbelievably massive exploded downward through the roof, splitting it in twain just down the center. Both young persons stumbled back towards opposite sides of the room as it tore down blocks and metal beams and then plunged through the grated floor, sinking its lower half deep into the space below them, sending dust and metal particles bursting through the air.

Alex swore to himself, clambering to his feet and staring upwards. A huge gear- or something that looked very much like one- had fallen through the roof. What might once have been a supporting structure had collapsed the hallway behind them, and the gear itself formed a wall of solid metal between him and Heather Mason.

_Heather?_

_Heather!_

_"HEATHER!"_

"I'm here!" she called back to him, as he shoved up against the metal, scrabbling for some way around the gear. Could he climb it? Get around on the left side? The right? Was there a way to get into the space under it, was there, was there-!? He saw her arm pressing between two of the gear teeth and he darted for her, touching her fingertips, hugging her forearm against him and moaning as her fingers coiled into his hair. There was an open space on the other side of the gear as well, and Heather looked unharmed aside from some dirt or scrapes on her knees. "Are you okay?!" she asked him.

Alex nodded miserably, and then, still holding her arm, began feeling around for some passage. "Hold on, I'm going to get to you," he told her.

"I'm looking, it doesn't look like there's a way through," Heather said with irritation, not at him, but at Silent Hill. "It brought tons of wire and piping down with it, and it's all jammed between the teeth."

"I'll get through!" he said louder. Heather blinked. "Just- just-"

She shoved herself against the gear, worming both hands through despite the fact that doing so scraped up her right forearm. She grabbed at his face, stroking through his hair and over his cheeks. He trembled violently, hanging his head and lifting his arms to wrap around hers.

"Alex..."

He shook his head, not wanting to hear what she was about to say. "Heather- please-"

"You can't," she told him. "We're supposed to go different ways."

He shook his head again, looking up at her with desperate eyes. She held his gaze as intensely as she could, past the pipes and rust and the massive edge of the gear.

"Alex Shepherd," she said with the tone of a vow, promising him she would be okay.

"No," he begged.

"Elle needs us," Heather told him. "We can't stay here. We're close. I can tell. _You_ can tell."

Alex sagged against the gear. He couldn't say a word. When she started retracting her arms, he let her for a moment. Then he suddenly seized her left hand and pulled it back to him, pressed it to his face, his cheek, his jaw. He turned his lips into her palm and pressed a tender kiss to her skin. He closed her fingers around the spot he'd kissed, and then released her hand. "Come back to me."

Heather pulled her hand back, and touched her palm to her lips. "Promise." Heather backed up slowly, and waited for him to do so as well. She blew him a kiss, and then turned towards her designated hallway and drew her katana back from its sheathe. "Promise me the same?" she called over her shoulder.

"I _swear_ it," he answered with all the strength he could muster, thinking back to how his mother, Wheeler, and Elle had all been kidnapped with him present in the past. He'd saved Elle and Wheeler. He hadn't been able to save Lillian... "I swear it," he repeated more quietly to himself, and then steeled his gaze towards his path and hoisted up his rifle.

* * *

The hallways were interrelated. When Heather pulled a switch behind a painting, it opened up a swinging axe trap in Alex's hallway and also revealed another clue. When he used that clue to unlock a doorway and proceeded to the rooms beyond, he had to solve a puzzle with seals and rotating stone wheels set into a wall; doing so caused an acid vat to open up on Heather's side, and also lowered a stairway into reach. After two iterations of this game, the realization dawned on them almost simultaneously that each puzzle piece they unlocked simultaneously opened a new path for and endangered their partner on the other side.

And there was nothing they could do about it.

They couldn't help each other directly. They couldn't hear or call out to one another. They had no means by which to communicate. The traps were randomly placed, and could be close to or far from the next clue, so they couldn't try to 'time' things so that the other would be past the next trap. All they could do was hope. Pray. Trust in the other person's competence. The only clue they had that the person on the other side of the hallway was still alive, was when a new deadly pitfall opened up in front of them.

Heather heard a growling behind her. She closed her eyes for a moment and then turned around. Most of the traps had been very loud, involving large gears moving. _This_ one had been comparatively silent; she'd kept waiting for Alex to finish his side of the hallway. There were no less than ten orange-colored hounds surrounding the spot she was standing. They were lacking in fur and eyes, covered instead with a coat of enormous, painful looking blisters bulging out of irritated and swollen orange flesh.

Heather turned slowly to face them, watching as some paced around her and others growled and spit. "It's always dogs," she muttered, but then shook her head and grinned back at the 'animals' almost viciously. "But I'm not the frightened kid I used to be." She took a slow step to her left, putting herself in front of a long hallway she'd just finished exploring. "Come catch me, you ugly bastards."

Then Heather was bolting through a wing of what looked like medieval sickrooms, a pack of grotesquely bubbling hounds on her heals. She reached a door at the end of the hallway at a dead run, firing her Uzi behind her blindly, and then she had a problem. There were still four dogs; and the doorway at the end of the hallway was locked shut, emblazoned almost tauntingly with a Seal of the Metatron. She kept firing for a moment and then dropped the gun and reached for her katana, but then suddenly her fingers alighted on the Seal of the Metatron.

She looked at the door with a sudden calling, a sudden certainty, and then grabbed at its handle with the muttered command, "Open."

The door obeyed.

Heather shoved through the aperture and whirled around, slamming the door shut in the hounds' faces. She dropped the Uzi in her haste. The Blisterhounds yipped, barked, snarled, and... made icky rupturing noises as their blisters popped... They kept ramming against the doorway, against a flimsy lock with no deadbolt in sight. Heather swore viciously.

The ground rumbled, shrieked. For a second, Heather thought another gigantic gear was about to fall through the roof. She was in the middle of turning her head to look behind her when a foot thick sheet of metal slammed into the door right beside her face, puncturing the wood and tearing straight out into the hallway beyond. Dogs shrieked and whimpered, fleeing the door with desperate howls.

Heather Mason rolled her back against the door, tilting her head back and back and back to look up at the massive ten-foot demon that was looming above her. It was standing near her, near the door in a slightly hunched position, both veiny fists wrapped tight around the hilt of a massive serrated blade. The tip of that weapon was embedded several feet into the door. Even with it leaning over, it was so ridiculously tall that Heather was looking at the underneath of its helmet instead of the front- Not that she could see much in the dim lighting.

It pulled the blade partially out of the door, took one thunderous step close, stood up a little straighter, angled the blade, and stabbed down into what must have been an injured dog. Heather heard a squelching noise and a strangled whimper behind her. Then all was silent.

Dreams were one thing. Life was another. Heather came up to its _hip_. She was _tiny_, and it was enormous. She could see each blue vein bulging under its jaundiced skin, the bits of gore and rivulets of blood that coated its forearms like gloves. Heather was so close to it that she could smell it; smell leather, offal, blood, even sweat; could see, hear, almost feel each massive breath. The air around it was hot, like it was some massive flesh-coated furnace.

The helmet remained raised for a moment; perhaps it was listening for the dogs. When it concluded the creatures were gone, the pointed tip of the helm dropped back to the monster's chest, and it pulled the sword effortlessly out of the splintering wood. For a moment, the weapon was almost weightless in its fingertips; Then the tip sagged to the ground, landing with a weighty metallic thud.

Heather stared at it in awe, deaf to the part of her brain that told her it was so large it wouldn't be able to grab her if she ducked down and tried to scramble behind it. The massive black helmet turned to her face her after a moment, and the creature arched its back a little so it could get a better look. The monster's unoccupied hand twitched, fingers grasping unnaturally, almost puppet-like at the air. A long, thick black tongue eased down from the left side of the helmet, coiling through the air, dripping dark, sebaceous fluid.

The tongue smeared up against her face, coiling up her throat, slicking through her hair, oozing behind the back of her neck. The shock of the touch eventually sent Heather's brain back into motion, though for a moment she was paralyzed by the disgusting and slightly violating nature of it. This was not right at all. "Hello to you too," she protested sarcastically, lifting her arms a little and trying to keep the tongue from getting near her mouth or eyes. The tongue looped around her arm, firm but gentle. Not right at all. "Excuse me, but I don't think I've killed any loved ones lately_."_

The executioner made a grumbling noise that was like thunder, like a mine cart operating deep in the bowls of some great mountain. It didn't seem like the kind of noise that any living thing could possibly make; it shook a person in the bones. Heather grimaced as the tongue wrapped through her hair. It shifted its weight and then slowly lifted its free hand, reaching up as if to grab at her throat. Heather tensed, gripping her katana tightly, ready to slice off that tongue if need be to escape. The hand hesitated uncertainty twitching, articulating through the air.

Something writhed behind the Pyramid and Heather dared to lean slowly to the side, away from the giant monster, to try and get a glimpse of it. The tongue remained clinging to her. Behind the Pyramid she saw a doll-like creature, something like Alex's Scarlet, and something like a normal mannequin. It might have been made of porcelain because it looked cracked instead of cut and blood seeped from the gaps. Some of its joints were broken; it writhed and kicked but could not lift itself, and its legs had been spread in a very lewd way.

The Pyramid Thing's hand moved, settling down on the wall beside her head, preventing her from leaning any farther away. The opposite hand lifted up the massive Great Knife as if it were but a feather, and then pressed the tip firmly, effortlessly into the floor beneath them. The hand released the knife; the weapon remained embedded in place. Heather looked at the abandoned blade in confusion, and then sucked in a surprised breath as the monster arched closer to her, its knees bending into a partial squat, a soft rumble working through its throat. It was at this point Heather realized several buckles holding up the executioner's skirt were undone, and the garment, which ought to have been wrapped about its waist, sagged instead down about its hips.

And James had said...

The Bogeyman lowered its free hand and pawed at the edge of the skirt, pushing at the hem in frustration for a moment before slowly feeling for the clasped tongue of another belt.

Heather grabbed the Seal of the Metatron, clenched it tight against her palm, and then suddenly broke out laughing. The Pyramid thing lifted up and moved one thunderous footstep backwards, its tongue slipping away from her face, more startled than it could have been had she whipped out a gun and shot it. Heather shook her head up at it, an amused smile on her face, and in that moment there could be no doubt in anyone's mind that the Mason girl had come a long way in her months living with the faceless angel. Now she suddenly understood why this was specifically Alex Shepherd's Bogeyman. "In this... moment... Are you- are you _seriously_ my fear of sex?" she asked it.

The Pyramid Thing stared at her.

"Get _out_ of here," she protested, advancing a step on it.

It backed up, away from her, barely managing to grab its knife as it went. It, The Pyramid Thing, the half-god, whose footsteps were as thunder, backed away from Heather Mason like a scolded child. A wild and exhilarating sense of power filled her, and she took another step towards it.

"You aren't even made for me; I can only see you because of Alessa! Get _out_ of here! I'm on a rescue mission, this has nothing to do with hate!" It kept backing up with each word, and Heather kept advancing, never leaving its striking range, until the two of them were parallel with the Porcelain-Doll monster. There the Pyramid Thing paused, glancing at the doll splayed out beside it. Its head wove back and forward, its free hand grasping haphazardly at the air. Heather shook her head and then took one last step up to it, grabbing at its skirt.

"You-" she reprimanded, hiking the skirt up and grabbing at the belts, "-Do Not Have-" she rethreaded the buckles and pulled them tight to secure the garment back in place; "-The Tools-" she grabbed the front of the skirt, right between the legs, and grinned viciously up at the monster, "-For That."

And it didn't. The Sect of Valtiel was a cult of executioners; this Pyramid Thing was shaped in their likeness, in Valtiel's mighty likeness; thus this Pyramid was little more than an anatomically incorrect child's doll; Alessa's doll, and of no danger to Heather Mason.

This whole room, this whole situation, was a bluff designed to terrify her, and Heather saw straight through it. Odds were that the Bogeyman had come into being only seconds ago, already in a state of undress, specifically to scare the shit out of her.

The Pyramid had drawn both arms out wide and away from her. It was twitching, baffled; incorrectly matched to its situation. Heather Mason stared fearlessly, victoriously up at it, a wide smile on her face. She was almost giddy in the moment, adrenaline rushing through her body, and she wondered if this was what James Sunderland had felt like the moment he chastised his Twin tormentors and told them he finally understood. No; what Heather was feeling was much greater, much more powerful, and she would have to think about it at length later.

She placed her hands on its abdomen and pushed it backwards. The Pyramid Thing obeyed her voiceless instruction, backing up, dragging its heavy metal blade along with it. Heather stood back a step, collecting herself and slipping her hand back into her pocket, touching the Seal of the Metatron.

"Go," she told the Pyramid firmly, reproachfully.

There was a long moment of perplexed silence, in which the giant monster tilted its helmeted head ever so slightly to the side. She didn't budge, staring it down. Around thirty seconds passed. Then, slowly, it turned around, towards wide double doors in the back of the room. It paused a moment, as if thinking, but then turned itself around entirely, and took slow, rumbling footsteps out of the room. With each two steps, it gave a heave and pulled the sword along behind it.

"And leave Alex and Elle alone!" she called after a moment. "No tearing off limbs or whatever the fuck that nursery rhyme is about!" The Executioner bellowed and kept walking.

Heather watched it go until it was completely out of sight. She took a long, slow breath, releasing the Seal of the Metatron and getting her other weapons back into order about her person. Then she drew the katana and looked around. "I don't think this room was supposed to exist," she said after a long moment. She couldn't feel Valtiel nearby, so she didn't think this was exactly his doing. After a moment, she fished out the talisman from her pocket to look at it for a moment. "Walter, you're a similar kind of monster, aren't you? What were you trying to tell me?"

The Seal, resting quietly and innocently within her palm, provided no answers. Heather shook her head, pocketed the talisman once more, and then headed back towards the puzzle area she'd come from. Her concept was vindicated when Silent Hill collapsed four tons of roof into the space behind her, ensuring there was no possible way she could go back through that door. Heather glanced back at the ruins and then nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone started ringing. She quickly scrambled for the device, lifted it to her ear, and answered.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Oh god, Heather," came Alex's voice. "You're alive..."

"Our _phones_ work?" she nearly squawked in disbelief.

"Seems so," he sighed with heavy relief. "Oh my God. Where are you? I thought you might be dead."

"Oh you know, just busy getting molested by your giant Bogeyman, no big," She commented, grimacing as she smeared her now seriously disgusting hair out of her face.

"What!?"

"Yeah I think I wandered off the beaten path a bit. Some dogs were chasing me, and I was running down this hall, and you know how much I hate dogs, and then shh, don't tell anyone, but I'm secretly the reincarnation of Alessa Gillespie and might be able to open locked doors with my crazy, and then bam there's a giant Bogeyman. But don't worry, nothing happened. We had a long talk and then I helped him put his clothes back on and sent him on his way, no hard feelings. So how was your day, sweetheart?"

Alex Shepherd was half laughing, half crying into the phone receiver. "Just- just- hurry."

"You got it, babe," she said, tearing through a Blisterhound as she walked with her katana. "By the way, were your last three traps something to do with axes, something to do with spikes, and then something to do with arrows?"

He took in a few steadying breaths. "Yeah."

"Okay then, I think there are clues in our puzzles about what the next trap is going to be on the other side. I'll give you a call back when I find mine."

"Don't you _dare_ hang up," he growled warningly.

"Aren't you worried we'll run out of Otherworldian minutes on our phone plans? I'm sure Silent Hill thinks I'm roaming."

"Stay on the phone, Heather," he ordered in a very dark tone.

"Yes sir," she tried to match his tone, but she had just done something most people would consider impossible, and all by treating the Pyramid Thing a little bit like she would have treated Valtiel. She felt good; like she had the very first time she'd made a prediction about Silent Hill's craziness and found it to come true. She was starting to _get_ this place. Her voice simultaneously frightened and relieved her partner, who again thought back to Henry Townshend's words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Squints-
> 
> "There was a *scroll* here, but it's gone now?" 
> 
> For shame.


	25. Dicey

The final sanctuary was a very tall room. It was cylindrical in shape, and perhaps eighty yards across, with multiple balconies wrapped around its central shaft. These structures were draped in rusted sheet metal and barbed wire as if the stuff were silk. Standing tall in that shaft, where any other temple might have some benevolent idol, was instead an instrument of death. No smooth guillotine or electric chair, this device embodied justice in suffering. It was tube-like, stretching from the bottom of the temple to its roof. The convict was harnessed to chains at the bottom of the tube and pulled up through its length by great gears at the top of the fixture.

If one looked up the tube's length, heated spears could be seen inset in the sides and angle downward. The lower spears just barely breached the interior surface of the device, and their glowing red metal was clearly visible from the ground; Later spears were inserted farther and farther into the device, until the final instruments would be cleaving large chunks off of anyone unfortunate enough to be drawn up inside. By that point, the heat from the spearheads alone would have been incredible.

A thick downward facing knife, not unlike the Bogeyman's blade, was suspended vertically down the top end of the tube. Rarely did any culprit survive the journey to the tip of the blade. The machine would continue to drag them ever higher, splitting their remaining husk in twain over the Great Knife, and then the chains would drag each resultant half out through two separate vents.

The precise details of the device's operation might not have been immediately apparent to Alex and Heather when the two rushed out onto separate platforms surrounding the device, but at the very least they could both tell it was Very Bad. Alex was on the ground level. He had already pocketed the cell phone, because he could hear a woman screaming. When he entered he realized the balconies above him had a 'congregation' gathered upon them, all in long robes with deep hoods.

Three cultists, high priests and priestesses, encircled the base of the device. One wore the pristine white robes and red hood with a black cross that signified a Priest of Valtiel. Another was a scowling woman who, on first impression, seemed to embody the essence of the modern stay-at-home mom. Her short dark blonde hair was neatly combed, straight, and clipped neatly and unadorned to one side. She had modest earrings, blue jeans, and an unflattering blouse that hid a little bit of belly fat and stretch marks. She held the red tome of the Sect of the Holy Mother.

The third cultist was almost androgynous and identifiable as male only because he lacked breasts. His hair was long, black, and curled, and his drab-colored but heavily layered clothing looked like it ought to have belonged on a Romanian woman. His expression was aloof, powerful, and smug. The three were each standing on an interior circle of the Halo of the sun, painted round the base of the device, and although this symbol should have afforded each participant equal standing, the other two knew who was truly in power; They feared, loved, and resented him for it.

"You're insane! This is evil- all of you, you're insane! Can't you even tell this is wrong!?" a blond woman was screaming above their chanted murmurs The androgynous man turned a patient gaze onto the Priest of Valtiel, who jabbed her hard on the solar plexus with the butt of his own spear. Elle crumpled, the wind knocked out of her, sagging. They had harnessed her body to the machine, wrapping chains around her arms, her shoulders, hips, thighs, and ankles.

"To God's judgment, we send this sinner. She has refused to see the light; refused to partake that most sacred of God's mercies, in repentance, in sacrificing to God's healing light. She has refused the tender face of her own mother. Rise up now, sinner, rise up and behold God's justice-"

"ELLE!"

At forty yards, post haste, with Elle just beside and partially occluded by the cultists, it ought to have been an excruciatingly risky, if not impossible shot. Alex took it anyway, tucking his head against the gun, aiming, and firing almost immediately.

The Priest of Valtiel lurched forward, leaning heavily on his spear as he half staggered, half fell to his knees.

A shock rushed through the assembled cultists, and the other two cult leaders spun towards him, quite surprised by his sudden appearance. Alex took a step forward, aiming his gun straight at the second of the cultists, the androgynous man. Then suddenly something lashed forward and seized the soldier about the legs, yanking them together with a snap and toppling his center of balance. Alex fell backwards with an oath. He barely had a second to register the impact, but then he didn't have to; firmly entrenched instincts kicked in, directing his rifle towards the source of the danger.

There were scrolls bound tightly about his legs like the linen wraps of a mummy, and they dragged him sharply off towards the side of the sanctuary.

* * *

Heather emerged on the second to topmost balcony of the Sanctuary. She was high above the cultists, and with the machinery but one floor ahead, she couldn't see or hear much. She did hear Alex shout for Elle and her blood turned cold. She had to get down there somehow! She looked frantically around for ladders or staircases. There was a staircase that spiraled around the inside of the Sanctuary, though it followed the outer circumference of the room. Heather didn't know if she could reach the ground in time to help anyone.

Her thoughts of descending the structure vanished when she heard a muffled whine from nearby, and she turned around, looking for the source of the noise. There was a dais seated to the south of the structure, with a large circular plate seated in the wall behind it. The plate was adorned with the Seal of the Sect's most holy of angels. Two beautiful angelic statues of white marble stood on either side of it, their faces covered by real red hoods, each carrying an executioner's spear.

Angels? Damn it, why did the cult _never_ make sense? Why were its symbols not congruent, even from one part of a temple to the other? Alex had once told Heather that Margaret Holloway had spoken thus: "She still believes there are things such as good and evil. But there aren't. There is only order and chaos." But which did the Order believe in? Order? Or Chaos?

Maybe she was thinking too deeply. This was the otherworld, after all-

Heather froze. Tethered to the ground by the wrists between the two enormous sculptures was a huddled figure Heather immediately recognized, the marks on his shoulder echoing the giant Seal behind him. When he saw he had her attention he whimpered again; in response something around his waist suddenly constricted. His body contorted, curling further up on itself in pain; Heather heard ribs cracking.

What. The. Hell.

She ran towards him, katana in hand. When she was only a few yards away the angel statues began to crack and chip. Heather tried to keep them in mind as she dropped to her knees before the captured angel.

"Valtiel!" she whispered horrified. He was completely curled up on himself; his back bowed almost in the fetal position, his head curled under his chest, the intricate laces of his smock stretching across his frame. She reached out hesitantly, touching his back and shoulders, not sure what to do. He shifted just a little, lifting his head to 'look' up at her. He looked almost as pathetic as he had that day in her studio. What the hell? What the _hell_?!

"I'm here!" she gasped, touching his face and shoulders, noting the new scrapes and bruises mottling his cheeks and arms, and a new thick slice down his left forearm. "I'm here, I'll get you free!" He didn't make a noise for fear of being torn in half; merely stared at her. Heather tried to figure out what was holding him down and then saw what appeared to be _paper_ tightly wrapped about his wrists and waist. She was baffled for a second before she recognized them as scrolls. The tips of the long papyrus disappeared through the grating of the metal dais, spiraling down into the floors below. For a creature who could have torn the dais itself to shreds with his fingertips, Valtiel looked utterly and completely trapped.

She grabbed up her katana and pressed it against the binds on his wrists, but he made a breathy gasp of panic. Heather paused and looked at him. He couldn't speak, and he barely had a face, but something passed between them in that moment; Heather was certain if she cut the scrolls, something very bad was going to happen.

The angles were crackling, marble fragments falling all around them. Heather winced up at them. The arms, legs, wings, and presumably faces of the statues were mostly unblemished and starting to twitch, but the abdomens were now stripped of marble 'skin'. Each angel's torso was an open cadaver; pregnant and filled with lumps and tumors. Heather had seconds to decide on a course of action.

The Mason girl placed a hand on Valtiel's shoulder blade almost protectively for a moment; then she turned back towards the angel, grasped his ovoid face between her hands, kissed the brow, and cradled him against her for just a second. "I won't leave you," she swore. The angel stared up at her in adoration and horror. She drew out her katana and stood as the huge statues took their first steps, each swiveling about to face her. Their ribs hinged opened, and dozens of tiny child-like hands reached out from the puckered tumors and from the swollen wombs, grabbing towards her.

* * *

Alex fired on the scrolls that were dragging him. There were two of them, and they writhed in the dimly lit air ahead of him, but he took each shot and fired it. A bullet tore through one, then through the other, and suddenly he was free, and the paper around his legs was no more than paper. He tore it vigorously away from himself, clambering to his knees. Then the two scrolls suddenly lashed forward again. They hit with surprising force, or at least with agility. The first one sliced open his shoulder like a razor blade as he tried to duck, the other wrapped around his gun barrel and jerked the weapon from his grasp.

Alex swore, diving for the gun, but the scrolls grasped him by one leg and hoisted him up into the air. He reached behind him, grabbing for his combat blade-

"This one too must have the opportunity to repent," said a soft voice, a masculine voice. Alex looked towards the speaker and realized it was the androgynous man. He had moved from his position at the Halo of the Sun, and was watching Alex with soft eyes, eyes that didn't bother to conceal a predatory interior. He leaned over to place a hand on the shoulder of The Priest of Valtiel. The latter was clutching at the bloody wounds in his torso but somehow was still alive, still kneeling, leaning heavily on his spear.

"Let her go!" Alex shouted.

"She is being returned to her God's justice as an unbeliever," the man said to Alex. Then, to the injured Priest, "can you rise, my friend? The Goddess requires an avatar of her Judge to complete this ceremony."

The Priest of Valtiel grasped his spear tighter, but could not rise; could not even begin to. His breaths were coming in harsh rasps.

The man stood, nodding quietly. "Very well." He turned his gaze into the darkness, off to the side of the sanctuary where it appeared the scrolls had emerged from.

A woman stepped out of the darkness just then- or at least, she _appeared_ to be a woman. At first sight, Alex could not help but feel that something was very wrong, very unnatural about her. She was tall, intimidating, wearing something of a leather veil or habit that covered her eyes, peaked over the crown of her head, and reached back to cover her hair. Scars trailing down her cheeks suggested she had no eyes. Her lips were full and red. Bands of leather were wrapped carefully around the rest of her body, ensuring every joint was fully mobile. The bits of skin that were left exposed were cracked and scarred where they came near the leather. Wrapped about her torso and drifting behind her like flags, streamers, or wings were the scrolls. She was their source; they seemed to be spun from her leather garments. in fact, her outfit was covered in red runes, inscriptions, and sigils, all of which appeared to be _bleeding_.

She moved slowly and purposefully towards the collapsed priest, taking small steps. She did not speak a word, did not acknowledge anyone present. The ground rotted underneath her footsteps, and Alex watched helplessly as she walked directly in front of a terrified Elle. She did not 'look' down at the injured priest. One of her scrolls twisted forward, coiling slowly into a rope-like shape. It hovered over the High Priest, giving him one last chance to rise; then it came down and alighted on his masked forehead.

The world shuddered. There was an ominous groan of metal, torturous, loud. The balcony was rumbling. Then steel pipes and sheets of metal were winding up from the ground, wrapping around the dying Priest, contracting around his hood, his head. For a moment, the man remained human- hurt, but alive. Then his flesh began to bloom, his bones to crack. The metal rushed over him, contracted, shaped itself, and the man was screaming, screaming, _screaming_, and the screams were growing lower, more brutal.

Alex's jaw dropped. He gaped in horror as a monstrous thing rose up in the High Priest's place, hoisting up the Executioner's spear. Though something like Alex's Bogeyman or James' Red Pyramid, it had a much smaller, close-fitting, human-like helmet. It's body was slightly melted as if it had been wax held too close to the fire, and its legs were burnt and charred and falling apart, like roots oozing into the metal work beneath it. It felt incomplete and maybe it was, but that didn't make it any less horrible.

"Who the hell _are_ you!?" Alex exclaimed.

"I am Edwin," The androgynous man answered, "and I have come to reunite all the faithful in honor of her glorious name." He turned from Alex then and smiled almost affectionately at the scroll-wrapped woman.

"You are hurt, my lovely Xipe," he purred to her, reaching out gently to touch one of her scrolls. Alex saw they were the ones he had shot through. "You know you are too precious, too divine, to be poisoned by the touch of the faithless. Release him. Our friend will see that justice is done. You must have the blasphemer's stench bathed from you." He looked to the newly created Judge, who was waiting patiently for its orders, its back bowed under the great suffering of its existence. "Begin the sacrifice."

Alex grabbed the combat knife and brought it across the scrolls binding him with a ferocious swing. Xipe turned towards Alex, but Edwin shook his head in the soldier's direction and took her gently by the arm, pulling her backwards. The scowling housewife, presumably High Priestess of the Holy Mother Sect, followed after them. The Executioner swiveled towards Alex, bellowing low.

Alex grabbed his shotgun from his shoulder. He was trying to decide what target to aim for- the Pyramid Thing looked stationary and perhaps not the biggest threat- when it suddenly lifted its spear and slammed the butt down hard against the ground. A tinny metal noise ruptured outward from the source, knocking Alex back on his rear and thundering up the length of the Sanctuary. Somewhere high above them, gears began to turn.

Elle screamed; the harness had begun tugging her upwards. Alex's eyes opened wide.

_"ELLE!"_

* * *

This was some of the fanciest footwork Heather had ever done in her life. Back and forth she moved, stepping over the crumpled body coiled up upon the dais, skirting round him, dodging spears left, diverting them right. She had gotten one solid strike on the left angel's internals when the two had first lunged for her, and was waiting for the rib cage to open again.

Silent Hill didn't disappoint her. The ribs on both monsters gaped open. Heather lunged for the left one, drawing her katana down with both hands in a vertical strike over the tiny grasping arms blooming from within. The statue shrieked and rocked backwards, collapsing into rocky fragments. Heather used her momentum and spun around, delivering an upwards strike to the other statue's rib cage.

"Leave!" she shouted, at the angel, rolling underneath another spear blow. "My!" It stabbed down at her, Heather jumped backwards and out of the way. "Angel!" The ribs opened, the thing leaned forward and screamed at her, its spear coming around for a wide spring. Heather jumped at it, bringing the sword down with all the force she could manage, drawing the hilt back for the perfect slice. The monster's internals ruptured open and it collapsed. "ALONE!"

Valtiel was trembling when she returned to his side, his breath coming rapid and shallow. Heather dropped her sword with a completely unprofessional clatter, grasping at his shoulders. "What do I do?" she pleaded with him. "How do I get you out?"

The monster tried to look at her, but his restraints tightened and he made an agonized, painfully sharp intake of breath.

This wasn't right! This was a temple for the Sect of Valtiel! The symbol on the rear of the dais was _his_ symbol, the Seal of the Metatron! Why was he bound in this place? Why was it torturing him?! _Was_ it Valtiel's symbol? If it belonged to him, if it were his insignia of power, why was he _branded_ with it? Brands indicated ownership, not identity!

Heather hesitated. Then her eyes widened and she gave a gasping shudder as some strange instinct wormed through her. She reached into her pocket, grabbing at the talisman therein, remembering the description she'd once come upon for it. _It was given the name Seal of the Metatron because of its difficulty to control._

The Pyramid Head. The Locked Door. Heather hadn't found the correct 'key' to open up that door. _That room was not supposed to have existed_. The Pyramid Thing had come into existence the instant she'd opened the door, already in a state of undress, through dream logic, through Silent Hill, through her subconscious. But that _room_, that room had suddenly existed because she had _needed_ it to!

Valtiel wailed at her in agony. Heather lifted her head to look at him again and then threw one arm about him, clutching her own Seal in that hand and reaching towards the inscribed plate behind him with the other. The world shuddered in response to something going on beneath them on the first floor, but Heather ignored it. Her eyes narrowed in focus; then there was a bright, red-hot flash and the scrolls binding her companion were burning away, hissing violently, smoke and ash rippling up from them. The lengths zigzagged through the air like injured appendages. Her fingers clenched into the dais symbol and the papers withdrew entirely, lighting up like the tail ends of lit cigarettes.

Valtiel trembled, sagging into her. He moved slowly, gingerly, easing his arms around her shoulders. Heather trembled. The world came back to her. She jerked back from the Seal plate as if burned by it, and dropped the talisman she held in her other hand. Her weight rolled back on her heels and she dripped away from her companion, her fingers clutching at the ground, her body shaking. She stared at her fingertips for a moment and then weakly lifted her head again, looking at him.

"What did I do?" she sobbed, begged; tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "What just... how... how did...? Who...?" Her voice was cracking. "Who_ am_ I?"

Although he was badly injured and Heather was mostly unscathed, it was the Metatron who reached out to her, clutched at her, pulled her tenderly up against him. He wanted to offer more support, to gather her up in his arms, but it was the best he could do to hold her against his chest and rest his weight on her, his chin atop the crown of her head. His breathing came shallow and pained, and though he tried to purr for her, the sound came out broken and wheezing. Heather shuddered, overwhelmed by the enormousness of things she did not truly want to understand. The only thing real enough, the only thing she could truly face in that moment, were the horrible purple bruises wrapped about her angel's midsection.

Something had hurt him. _Twice_ now. That was enough to get her temper burning.

There was a feminine scream from below. Elle. Heather shuddered, pulling slightly away from the metatron and looking desperately at the death-dealing machine behind her. The gears above them were moving, and the chains rattled as they dragged Elle Holloway ever higher. "We have to stop it," she croaked. The angel gently squeezed her shoulder. She looked back up at him and noticed he was scanning the balcony just above them. His gaze turned to the rear wall and he made as if to reach for it, to climb it. He nearly fell over, and Heather had to catch him.

"Are you _crazy_?" she hissed at him. "Look at yourself, you're hurt! You're not going _anywhere_ without me! If something happened- if I lost you-"

The angel looked at her, and a moment passed between them in which Heather realized the angel was confused, and did not understand what she was saying.

Heather shook her head and pushed herself back up to her knees, and then to a crouch, all while helping to support him. Then, with his weight leaning against her, she took his face in both hands again, and pressed her nose and forehead to where his would be if he were human. "You are _mine_," she whispered to him. "My angel, My family, My friend. I _love_ you. I don't want to lose you. You are not just any old wall-climbing faceless boogieman. You are not replaceable. You are _my Valtiel_."

A coo gushed out past his busted ribs. He clutched at her, trying frantically not to twitch out from under her touch. Then she kissed him and he hugging against her, trembling violently and helplessly into the embrace.

Alex was shouting; the Executioner below them roared; Elle screamed again. Valtiel squeezed her shoulder because Alex wasn't having luck stopping the Executioner, and Heather needed to move if there was to be any chance of saving Elle.

Heather nodded and pulled one of his arms completely about her shoulder, easing him slowly to his feet. Valtiel staggered slightly and leaned very heavily into her side, his face brushing up against her own. "Do we have to get up there?" she asked, looking towards the higher balcony. Valtiel nodded. "I wish I could carry you," she muttered, looking at the staircase that wrapped up to the next level. It wasn't that far. "Hold tight."

* * *

The second time the Bogeyman slammed the butt of its spear to the ground, it knocked Alex back again. He was left wondering if the situation was hopeless; how was he going to be able to fight the thing if he barely had time to stand? Then he heard Elle shriek as the machine redoubled its pace.

There wasn't time for doubt.

Alex didn't try to stand when the ground stop shaking. He lifted up the shotgun and braced it against his knee, aiming. The Bogeyman lifted up its arms, inhaled deep, and Alex fired a round directly into its gut. The creature jerked with the force of the blow, reeling back on its hips and losing its momentum for the next slam. Alex rolled to his feet, fired another shot, and another, not sure what to aim for. It seemed to weather these blows comfortably, unbothered by them, and instead loosed an inky black vapor in Alex's direction. That was new. The soldier swore and rolled out of the way, charging towards his rifle.

The Executioner stood up straight and began inhaling, lifting up his spear. Alex paused just outside the cloud, whirling towards the monster, aiming straight for the core of its body. He fired. The creature reeled backwards again. Alex ignored the rifle, now running straight for the Executioner.

It blew out black fog. Elle shrieked. Alex grabbed on to a pillar of metal, yanking himself out of the way of the poisonous fumes. It inhaled. He fired. It staggered, and he charged. As he reached it, it swung at him with its spear and he unsheathed his combat knife. The shotgun only looked to have temporarily winded it.

"Alex! ALEX!"

She knew he was there! "Elle!" he pled, dodging a stab of the spear, carving a slice into its torso. "Hold on!" The spear swung around wide, catching Alex's shoulder and sending him flying back to the ground. No time. He kicked up and then swore violently when he realized the thing was at the peak of an inhale. He fired. It brought its spear down, the earth trembled, and the machinery sped up.

* * *

For someone who could not support his own weight, Valtiel was still amazingly strong. He had healed a little in the short distance up to the next balcony, but still could not stand without her help. When he and Heather reached the top floor, he gestured for her to help him over to where some massive cogs were working. Heather was slightly confused, as no valves, levers, or other forms of control were in sight, but she helped him limp over and then settled him down. She watched Metatron worm one arm under a lip of steel and then, to her horror, he reached straight into the moving machinery and grabbed the edge of a gear.

Pectoral muscles, biceps, everything flexed. The cog ground to a halt, pressing against the metatron's unbelievably strong grasp. Valtiel shifted his weight and a spasm of pain caused him to slip an inch. He growled in frustration, pressing his weight hard into the machinery and then whining when his abdominal muscles, his core, could not help him.

Heather looked around frantically for some means to stop the machine. Elle was starting to sound hysterical, gasping and screaming and thrashing within the tube. Heather looked frantically around. A small alcove called her attention to the southern end of the balcony again, and she darted for it. There was an altar there, along with four tablets and four spears.

Heather suppressed a low moan, staring at the puzzle with anxious horror. She tried to read the words, but her brain was panicked by Elle's hellish screaming. Then a loud and violent growl echoed over from across the balcony. Heather lifted her head and saw her Metatron watching her, his hands stuffed desperately into the giant machine, doing everything in his power to keep it from turning any further. On Elle's behalf; On Heather's.

_Something had hurt him_.

Heather looked down at the tablets, her eyes scanning over their lines of violent prose, and realized each and every one of them was asking a personal question. She lifted her gaze. Not personal to her; Personal to the victim. Questions she had heard the answers to, over long and excruciatingly painful luncheons where Alex Shepherd had gone on and on and on about his childhood exploits.

She grabbed one of the spears and pulled.

* * *

The Executioner's spear vanished from his hand and the machinery stopped moving upward. The screaming had stopped. Alex saw this and more or less roared at the monster, diving at its midsection. It grabbed clumsily for him, then jerked violently as he stabbed deep into its belly. He tore across its belly with a wide sweep, eviscerating it.

The creature reeled backwards and then collapsed. Above him, the machinery started operating again. Alex whispered a frantic 'no!' and rushed towards the shaft. Then he realized the gears were operating in reverse. The chains were descending back towards the ground through the tube. It was over; the trap had been beaten before it reached the Bogeyman's knife.

"Elle!" he called. "Elle? Elle!" No response greeted him, and a cold chill ran over his body. The trap hadn't reached the knife, not by a long shot, but it had still risen very high. "ELLE!" he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, Heather. 
> 
> Looks like the Forces-That-Be intended you to head straight for that puzzle. You um... you might not want to tell Alex that you were rescuing a half-Alessa-delusion-half-evil-god when you were supposed to be rescuing his childhood BFF. Just... just sayin'


	26. In Which Debt is Accrued

"Alex!" It wasn't Elle's voice; it was Heather's. He looked up to the very top balcony high above him, where she was leaning over the railing and holding an Executioner's spear. The look on her face spoke of determination but also fear. "There was a puzzle... _Alex_, are you okay?"

"I'm- S-She's not responding!" Alex choked out, looking back towards the descending machinery.

Heather swallowed hard. She pulled back from the railing and quickly hurried over to her Metatron, who was leaning heavily into the machines. He was too tired to reach out for her when she approached, so she had to bend down at the knees and carefully gather him up against her shoulder again. He made a soft expression of pain but didn't seem to begrudge her moving him, laying his head against her shoulder.

"Are you healing?" she asked him worriedly. He gave one of his twitchy nods. "Val... is she alive?" An uncertain stillness answered her. Heather swallowed hard. The shriek of poorly oiled metal echoed beside them; Heather turned her head quickly to see an elevator had just alighted on their floor, and balcony latticework was peeling back to open the entry way. Heather glanced at her companion and then helped him over to the elevator. As exhausted as Valtiel was, his steps were already more natural; perhaps the Sect temple was accelerating his healing.

* * *

Alex was waiting at the bottom of the death machine when the chain harness once more reached the bottom. It lowered Elle Holloway directly into his arms, and he gave a breathy exhale of pain when he saw her. There were blisters and lacerations all over her, and her forearms and hands had been burned the worst. Blood rolled down her sides as Alex scrambled to disentangle her from the harness, cutting through the metal links with his combat knife and a strength he didn't realize he possessed.

When the chains were off she collapsed limply into his arms. She was very still. Alex moaned, sinking to his knees and gathering her to his chest. The smell was enough to make his stomach roil, the smell of burnt hair and flesh, of blood and vomit. "Elle!" he gasped, cradling some fingertips under her throat, searching for a pulse. "Elle, please!"

Elle Holloway shifted a little then, her eyes opening to cracked and blistered slits. Her cracked lips moved a little, mouthing his name. But then her eyes closed and her head slowly rolled back. "Elle..." he whispered, tears dripping down his chin and onto her blood soaked clothing. He felt for a pulse, took in a sharp breath, and gave her a little shake. "_Elle..._" he pled, "_Elle...!"_

The world sunk down atop his shoulders. Alex collapsed from a crouch to a seated position, clutching her body to his chest, listening for a breath or a heartbeat or any sign of life. He whispered her name again, and his voice cracked, and then a shuddering sob worked its way up through his clenched jaw and strangled throat. He cradled her against him and rocked her; his sobs were low, restrained through force of habit, but punctuated here and there by a mournful, helpless cry.

There was a mechanical whirring and a slow, continuous screeching noise as an elevator moved from the top balcony to the lowest level of the sanctuary. When Heather reached the bottom floor, she knew immediately that the worst had happened. She could see it in her partner's trembling, in his bowed head and tightly squeezed eyes, in the way he stroked Elle Holloway's damaged hair and cradled her form to his breast. There was no rush now; they had failed. With a sinking feeling in her gut, Heather Mason helped Valtiel over to the base of a metal pillar, and eased him gently down to a seated position.

Alex heard them- barely- past his sobs. He heard the Metatron's unnatural movements, Heather's murmured reassurances, and the monster's answering coo.

"That_ thing_," he growled out, hatefully but inaudibly, into the hair of a dead woman.

Then Heather was coming up behind him, her boots loud on the rusted metal floor. She stooped only a few feet away from him and hesitated for a moment.

"Alex...?" Heather asked, in as soft and gentle a voice as she could manage. Soft and gentle weren't necessarily Heather's strong suite. There had been one point in Heather's adult life in which she'd needed to reassure her youngest cousin upon the untimely death of a small gray hamster. It had been an absolute disaster; her aunt had accused her of lacking any form of empathy for other living things, and though Heather reasoned this was an inaccurate assessment of the situation, she nevertheless acknowledged she was bad at doing the 'emergency sympathy' thing.

Someone had just _died, _and yet Heather felt uncomfortably cool and level-headed inside, desensitized, perhaps as a result of PTSD. She didn't even feel very sad, certainly not like crying or mourning. Mostly she was angry, and feeling a little guilty, but those were Heather's coping mechanism for dealing with Silent Hill, and wouldn't do Alex much good. A little bit of fear came over her as she wondered if her voice sounded insincere, but she wanted so badly to comfort him. She _hadn't_ wanted Elle to die, and she was mad as hell at herself! But...

"She's _dead_," Alex heaved, slowly looking over his shoulder at the Mason girl. _Thanks for noticing._

Heather winced and clasped her arms over her chest, sensing the unspoken barb. "I'm sorry," she whispered. And _I care,_ she wanted to add, _I just don't mourn very well anymore. Please forgive me. _"I... I found Valtiel. He was bound at the wrist and-"

The look Alex gave her almost froze her blood, as if he had heard everything she'd thought, as if he were enraged by it, or hated her for some reason. "_I_ was worried about someone _real_," he uttered.

_Oh my God. I picked Valtiel over Elle._

Alex's eyes fell in disgust to something at her side, and Heather turned in place to see Valtiel crawling up beside her, twitching and quivering more normally now. He was in his inner most sanctum, and he was starting to regenerate rapidly without those scrolls to bind them. The slices on his face and arms had almost completely sealed. He appeared very similar to how he had on the day she'd first met him, hunched and animistic, not really looking at her, his head snapping about so rapidly it would cause any normal person excessive brain damage.

"Can you save her?" Heather asked him, though in doing so she realized she had already implicitly asked and Valtiel had already implicitly answered. He crawled past her, towards Alex and the dead girl.

The soldier's eyes opened wide. He leaned and then scrambled away from the metatron. "Get away from her!" he snarled as Valtiel reached out hesitantly towards the body. He kicked out at the angel's grasping hand, backing up frantically. "Oh my God, GET AWAY FROM HER!"

"Alex!" Heather shouted, hurrying up alongside the metatron. Alex scrambled for his shotgun. Heather swore and grabbed his arm, struggling with him and the poor corpse between them. "ALEX!"

His voice was hysterical "Keep that thing _away_ from her-!"

She slapped him hard across the face and then seized him by the collar and gave him a shake. Alex stared at her dumbfounded for just a moment. "Alex. Valtiel can resurrect people," she told him in a slow, low tone. Her partner stared at her a moment, the physical contact between them almost seeming to send energy, life, from her to him. He glanced to where the angel was crouched and twitching and then back to Heather again, eyes wide.

"What?" he breathed.

Heather released his collar and stood up a little. "It's time sensitive, though, and he's weak. I asked him about my dad once..." She shook her head, dispelling sad thoughts. "Alex, let him try."

"She'd be a manifestation," he choked. "Like my parents. Like Maria. Like-"

Heather gave a sharp wave of her hand. "No. Valtiel has even revived _me,_" she countered firmly.

Alex Shepherd stared at her and suddenly did not know what to do. He was... scared. Scared to the bone, scared in every part of himself. And to some extent, Heather was scared on his and Elle's behalf, only it wouldn't hit her till later; she was good at not feeling while there was a job to do. She held his gaze for a moment, and then slowly lifted her hand to her face and pressed a kiss into the palm. She tightened her fingers about the spot and then lowered her hand to him, opening the fingers slowly as they neared his face.

His eyelids half lowered as he looked down, partially at the hand she'd offered, partially off at nothing. Then he looked back up at her, and his lips and breath ghosted the lines of her hand. Alex Shepherd took in a deep and painful breath, and then turned with his burden back to face the angel. He didn't have Heather's mysterious bond with the angel; he felt no comfort or relief in its presence but he trusted Heather, trusted her more than he had ever trusted anyone in his life, more than he trusted the men he'd bunked with for years in the army.

He nodded slowly. "Okay. _Okay__. _Please. Please, if you can help her..." It was a terrifying thing to ask. It sounded to his ears like making a pact with the devil. If Heather was wrong, mislead, manipulated; then he would break into a thousand pieces.

"He needs the Halo of the Sun," Heather said; "it's a symbol of rebirth. Lay her down... and trust me."

Alex grimaced and nodded, easing Elle's broken body to the red markings on the earth, the very markings she'd been sacrificed over. Valtiel crept forward slowly, and though Alex wanted to stay near Elle, Heather coaxed him off of the circle. He grasped her hand in his own and clung to her, refusing to stand. His eyes rested on Elle's body, fearful, hopeful, brokenhearted...

Valtiel came up beside Elle Holloway on all fours, more lizard than man. He touched her gingerly, gently, assessing her wounds. Heather watched curiously; she knew that Valtiel and the Halo of the Sun had been responsible for reviving her more than once, but she had been incapacitated at those times, and therefore had never actually witnessed it.

The sanctuary grew dark in its corners, as if in preparation, waiting. Valtiel lifted his hands over Elle's body, gesturing softly a moment before holding steady, and a warm golden light began to form beneath his fingertips. The Halo became more and more luminescent in appearance, until it was most certainly glowing red. Blood seeped from the ground, from the grate floor underneath the tube and from Elle Holloway's clothes. It slithered towards her wounds, disappearing back into her body. The darkness increased elsewhere in the sanctuary, and the light increased about the Halo of the Sun, the Seal's on Valtiel's shoulders, and the glowing warmth in his hands. The air grew thick with something supernatural, something greater than a Freudian mental spiral. Then a hush rippled out from the circle. All glowing ceased, the light returning to the edges of the room.

Elle Holloway took in a pained gasp, heaving, arching her back. She rolled onto her side and cried out, alarmed, terrified, shocked. Valtiel shuffled backwards from her, recoiling back into the shadows of the Sanctuary. Alex scrambled forwards, wrapping his arms around the blonde-haired woman and pulling her up to look at him.

"Elle?" he whispered.

Her eyes met his. "Alex..."

Then she fainted dead away, overwhelmed by what had just happened. Alex checked her quickly for a pulse and then moaned in relief. He sobbed into her, happy tears, frightened tears, relieved tears, overwhelmed tears. "Thank you..." he whispered. "Thank you..."

Heather released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. She came up beside Alex and leaned over to touch his shoulder gently. The soldier shifted, wormed one hand up about Elle and with it grasped Heather's fingertips, pressing her hand against his throat and cheek.

Valtiel settled down against the metal floor, limbs partially curled under him, resting. Heather looked to the angel, beamed at him, a wide smile across her face. Metatron cooed softly in response.

* * *

Heather gave Alex a minute or so to collect himself before mentioning that the cultists might return and that they should probably get out of the sanctuary and back to higher ground.

He took off his coat and wrapped Elle in it for warmth, as it was December outside and very cold. Then he gathered her up in both arms and looked towards the elevator. "Think that'll take us out?"

"Hopefully," Heather agreed, moving over to retrieve his rifle and then returning to his side. Alex gave her a very intense, quiet sort of look, and she paused, blinking at him uncertainly. He had a very good poker face, and at the moment his expression revealed almost nothing. When a few awkward seconds had passed and no explanation was forthcoming, Heather cleared her throat and lowered her eyes. "Something you wanted to say to me?"

Alex Shepherd was silent a moment. Then he asked, "What happened to your hair?"

Heather blinked in surprise and touched her hair; then grimaced as her fingers came away black with oil. "Oh. Your Bogeyman thought I tasted nice."

Alex stiffened. "I didn't know what to think when you'd told me about meeting it. You acted with surreal calm about an experience that ought to have been fatal. It licked you? Did it... did it...?"

Heather gave a wry smile and came up beside her partner- he was still her partner, right?- and looped the rifle strap over his shoulder, clasping it across his chest. "You're just going to have to accept the fact that your good friend Heather Mason is just a bit more bad-ass than you," she teased him.

"You're not my friend, Heather."

Her gaze snapped up to his face in alarm. He was smiling; a faint, mischievous, relieved smile. "You're my girlfriend. Remember?"

Heather took in a slow breath and let it out with a shaky grin. She'd deserved that. "We'll talk later."

He nodded.

"Where's..." she looked around and then blinked in surprise. "Where's Valtiel?"

Alex gestured with his chin and Heather looked up to see the metatron had climbed up into the balconies. As she watched, he made a gravity-defying vertical jump one landing to another. He'd almost reached the top.

"What are you doing!?" she exclaimed in alarm, looking up at the balconies. "I told you not to go anywhere without me! Get down here!"

The metatron made a grumbling noise and disappeared over the edge of the balcony. Heather swore. "What's wrong?" Alex asked.

"Something had bound him up there," Heather answered, "scrolls, they'd bound him in place and were hurting him. He's badly injured."

"Scrolls? They were down here, too. I walked in on the cultists saying the last bits of a ritual around Elle, and shot one of them. Then these Scrolls just flew out of the darkness. They belonged to... well she looked like a woman, but she _felt_ more like a Silent Hill Monster. The lead cultist, Edwin, called her 'Xipe.' "

"She-pay... Xi-pe..." Heather tasted the word. Then she called out nervously again, "Valtiel, what are you doing?! Get down from there!"

"I think he left with her, saying something about 'bathing' the taint of a blasphemer off of her. Isn't this Valtiel's Sect temple? How could he be imprisoned _here_?"

"I don't know. But it looks like we were wrong about Valtiel being influenced by the temple premises He's not acting differently towards me at all. Must have been he was scared of this 'Xipe'." She glanced at Alex. "She might have been the one that kicked his ass last time, before Canada."

Valtiel had returned to the balcony edge and was climbing back down to their level. He paused now and then, whether to gauge a jump or favor his wounds Alex and Heather weren't sure.

"That's right, you get your creepy boogieman rear down here!" Heather scolded. "You're enough to give me a heart attack." Alex glanced at her, wondering exactly how Heather had managed to thwart a Pyramid Thing. The way Heather handled Valtiel's 'tantrums' as she'd called them had never dawned on him as significant before now. Now they were discussing a being of quasi-angelic status, who had just performed a bona fide resurrection, and Heather was fussing like a mother hen.

If Valtiel minded the treatment he did not show it. In fact he rumbled softly, descending balcony by balcony till he was perched on the ceiling just above them. Heather took a step towards him and he reached down to her with one red-gloved hand, offering her a circular talisman.

The Mason girl grimaced and stood stalk still for a moment. Valtiel mumbled and offered the talisman out further. Alex said nothing, watching as his partner took in several long breaths, composed herself, and then carefully took the Seal and pocketed it. "Okay," she murmured, "thank you." The inhuman monster, twitching unnaturally as per usual, nevertheless murmured tenderly down at her and reached down to pluck at the oily smear in her hair. When he realized what the black ichor was, he hissed in displeasure and tried get some of it off of her. Alex watched in confusion, amazed at the very real, very human interaction between Heather and her monster. She batted gently at Valtiel's hand, protesting that she was alright. He hissed grumpily, fussing at her more.

Alex was the one who first recognized the two scrolls hovering down beneath the balcony edge. All mirth left his face. "Heather! Look out!"

* * *

"She did _WHAT!?"_

Eileen Townshend winced at the volume of the older gentleman's voice. Henry glanced across the car at where she was on the phone with Douglas Cartland. Eileen was explaining things to him, and Douglas was clearly both angry and worried. Henry tried to focus on driving.

"Okay. Okay, thank you. I know, we should have called you ourselves. Yes, we're going to be there shortly. No... No, Henry doesn't think we're at risk. We'll meet you at the diner. Okay. We'll see you soon, Douglas."

Eileen Townshend ended the call and looked to her husband, saying aloud what he had already gathered from her side of the phone call. "She didn't tell him."

Henry just nodded.

"I guess I didn't expect she would. We're lucky we were with her, or we wouldn't even know." Eileen looked out the window and then breathed out sharply, irritably, between her lips. "What's it going to take for her to lean on us? She can't just _disappear_ like this."

"Douglas would have followed her in," Henry answered softly.

"What's wrong with that?" Eileen protested. "We tried to follow her!"

"He's in his late sixties, with bad knees."

Eileen grimaced. "So she kept him out of the loop to protect him. But when you love someone, you're supposed to be able to trust them and be honest with them. How can she say she loves him like an uncle and then never tell him what's going on in her life? He doesn't even know about Alex."

Henry had no answer that would satisfy Eileen, so he didn't try to give one; but truth be told he understood Heather's motivations more than a little. Aside from her childhood lived on the run and ignoring Douglas's health, there were many good reasons a young woman might not want to tell her 'uncle' about a new young man in her life.

A noise heralded that Eileen had received a text message, and she looked back at her cell phone to read it. "James is flying in tomorrow," she relayed. "Still haven't heard back from Travis." She grimaced and then rubbed her hand over her face and shivered.

"Eileen?" he asked, concern shading his voice.

"I just... I just hope they're okay..." She sniffled and Henry saw there were tears in her eyes. He reached over quickly and grasped her arm, pulling her against him so she could lean her head on his shoulder. "They're so cute together," she mumbled. "They deserve a good life... The kind we have, not lingering here waiting to be gobbled up again..."

Henry ducked his head to kiss her hair and kept driving. 'Welcome to Silent Hill' flashed past them. No fog in sight.

"They deserve everything couples ought to have," Eileen was mumbling. "To share a house, a warm fireplace, photo albums and vacations and..." Her voice got really tight and she squeaked out, "and _babies!_"

Henry made a face because he was pretty sure babies were the last thing on Heather Mason's mind. Then he started imagining a litter of dark-haired, light-eyed children riding about on a very confused Otherworldian Angel, who of course was dressed up as an old English nanny.

"One... step at a time... honey," he managed.

Eileen suddenly realized what she said and was horrified she'd been so insensitive. "And _SEX_!" she wailed miserably, causing Henry to wince at her blunt phrasing. Then she started crying and hiccuping and sniffling loudly because she was so worried for the two young adults and so desperately wanted them to have everything a person deserved out of life. Henry rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. He waited till she'd calmed down a bit.

"How about we work on 'Silent Hill survival' first, honey?" he teased gently, his voice adopting just a tiny fleck of humor, "and save meddling with our friends' interpersonal relationships till a week or two after everyone's safe and sound. Sound good?"

"Okay," she mumbled unhappily into his side, "but it's true, they deserve everything."

He gave her a gentle squeeze; then his eyes widened as they rounded a sharp curve, and he hit the brakes. There were two people walking down the middle of the road; One of them a sassy girl with blonde hair and the other carrying what he could only presume was an unconscious Elle Holloway.

"Heather!" Eileen shrieked, bolting out the passenger side doorway so fast Henry hadn't even realized she'd left his shoulder. "Alex!"


	27. You Blasphemed

"You're alive!" Eileen shrieked almost hysterically. "You're all alive!" Henry stepped out from his side of the van and closed the door behind them, coming up to where Eileen was sobbing into Heather Mason's shoulder as if _she_ and not Heather had been the one to just emerge from the depths of Silent Hill.

Something was off about Heather's bearing. The sarcastic and cocksure woman was now unusually retentive and quiet. She pat Eileen's back reassuringly and hugged her back tightly. Alex looked up at Henry, a worn but relieved expression on his face. "We've got Elle," the younger man said, as if he'd been bottling up the words and saving them for just this moment. "She's alive."

The sound of his words jarred Eileen's maternal streak into action. She pulled back from Heather and squeezed the Mason girl's shoulders, before quickly hurrying up to Alex and gently examining the precious burden he carried. "Is she hurt?" Eileen asked, gently touching the girl's face and hands. The Maine December air was cold.

"No, she's barely scratched," Alex answered, voice heavy with relief and affection.

"Henry?" Eileen called, "Henry grab one of those extra blankets I packed. Let's get her in the van."

Henry, Eileen, and Alex moved to get the unconscious woman into the rear of the six-door van. Henry pulled a few of the blankets out from the vehicle trunk, opened the door on the opposite side of the van, and unrolled them over the bench. Eileen caught the end nearest Alex and smoothed the cloth out. Alex turned sideways and crouched a little to ease Elle into the van; Henry climbed in the opposite side and supported Elle's shoulders, helping Alex get her safely onto the bench. They clasped the middle seat buckle very loosely around her waist and got another blanket over top of her. Alex gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and then they were closing the doors of the van and moving to take their own seats.

"Let's get _out_ of here," Eileen said excitedly. "It's over... I'm so glad it's already all over!"

Her eyes moved to her husband and she blinked when she realized Henry was standing unmoving some distance ahead of the vehicle, staring down the road. Her eyes followed his gaze, and she realized Heather was still standing where they'd first left her, several yards down the road, her arms clasped about her chest. "Heather?" she called. Alex blinked, looking up at the sound of his partner's name.

Heather smiled weakly but didn't say anything.

Eileen blinked. "Heather? Heather, what's wrong?"

Heather shifted her weight and eyed one of her feet for a second, before lifting her gaze to Henry Townshend. "So," she asked. "Is it still sunny out?"

Eileen was baffled by the question. She looked from her unmoving husband to Alex Shepherd. The former had a look of ill confusion on his face, as if he didn't _know_ what Heather Mason was talking about, but had his suspicions it was going to be bad. The expression suddenly terrified her, and she looked back to Heather with a jump. "Heather? Heather what are you talking about? What's going on?"

"She sees fog," Henry said quietly.

"What?" Eileen exclaimed, looking up in confusion. "It's not foggy, It's sunny! Its a _beautiful_ day, not even overcast! It's sunny for you. Isn't it?"

"Yes," Henry agreed, "but not for her."

Eileen's jaw dropped. She looked back at Heather and slowly shook her head. "No. _No_, you did what you came to do! You're done! You got Elle Holloway out, you're done! This- this is crazy this can't happen! Alex, Alex is it sunny for you!?" she spun towards Alex Shepherd, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"_Alex_ retrieved Elle Holloway," Henry noted. "Something else has business with Heather Mason."

Heather closed her eyes only for a moment and then looked down the road at Henry Townshend. "There's a new cult leader called 'Edwin' and based on what Alex told me he leads the Sect of the Holy Woman." She shifted her weight.

"That's Dhalia's sect; Claudia's," Henry observed.

Heather nodded. "They weren't expecting us to get there in time, and we cheated the obstacle course by following Valtiel in. Edwin seems to have some supernatural control over what's going on, just like Claudia. The Order isn't just stirring; it's in full swing."

Eileen gaped in disbelief, but Henry nodded quietly. "Did they kidnap Elle to lure you in?"

"Dunno," she shrugged. "Maybe he's just tying up loose ends. In that case, you and Eileen need to turn around and get yourselves and Elle out of here."

"No!" Elle suddenly shouted, repressed energy gurgling up inside her. "Damn it Heather, you need to stop doing that! Stop helping, stop protecting, stop hiding all these goddamn fucking secrets!" Henry looked at her, startled, eyes widening. "You're not the only one to hate them! You act like you're the only one who's ever gone through that hell, survived it, been abused by it! But you're NOT! You're not and you don't deserve to act like you are, leaving us all in the dark! This concerns ALL of us, dammit, and you need to get over yourself and let us HELP!"

Heather stared at her. Eileen was fuming, breathing hard and loud through her teeth, almost hysterical. Her eyes were narrowed and filled with tears; she was beside herself with frustration and anxiety. A long moment passed in silence. Then Heather lifted her head. "Someone needs to get Elle to safely," she said. "Are you and Henry going to split up?"

Henry's hands clenched almost imperceptibly because there was no way in hell he and Eileen would be splitting up.

"If we have to!" Eileen shouted angrily. Henry cringed.

"Right now I can't leave," Heather laid out the situation calmly. "If the Order is tying up loose ends, then everyone in our extended family is in grave danger. Let's say for the moment that you accompanying me away from this meaning means Silent Hill will let you in to help me. If that's the case, then you leave every one of our friends on the outside world uninformed, disorganized, vulnerable, and alone."

Eileen stiffened.

Heather placed her hands on her hips. "I bet you've already called everyone here, haven't you? But I bet also they're all arriving in separate groups. Alex and I weren't 'supposed' to find Elle in time, or get out of Silent Hill so early. This is a honeypot trap, Eileen. They only had to grab Elle, and they reasoned that every last remaining one of us would follow."

The older woman's eyes opened wide.

"The cult will pick them off like flies if someone doesn't rally them in time. I can't protect them, Eileen, so _you_ need to do it for me. You need to make sure everyone- from Laura, to Travis, to Douglas- is safe."

"But-"

"And you need to _trust_ me, Eileen Townshend," Heather continued, reaching into her pocket to brush the talisman. "Trust in my competence."

"Heather I do-!" she protested, "I-You can't go back in there alone!"

"She's not," Henry observed. Eileen blinked at him in confusion and then jumped as Alex Shepherd pushed gently past her shoulder and walked back down the road towards Heather Mason. The latter watched him uncertainly, and waited for him to reach her.

"What about Elle?" The Mason girl asked.

"I trust Henry and Eileen to get her to safety," the soldier responded, taking her free arm by the wrist and then running his hand back into hers and clasping her fingers tightly. "We'll do this together."

"Are you sure?" she asked him, thinking about how he vomited on the boat and about his constant trembling.

"This time? _Yes,_" he promised.

The two of them could have argued; they both had plenty of fodder for it. Heather could think up countless protests, and Alex could think up just as many rebuttals. After a moment of watching his face, Heather nodded and embraced him, clasping her arms tightly around his back.

"Thank you."

Eileen didn't know what to say. She looked to Henry. "What do we do?" she asked him.

"We make sure Elle and the others are safe," Henry answered. "Heather. Alex."

The young couple looked back to them, both with determination, both a little nervous, and yet both also filled with an inner elation at the knowledge that they would at least be enduring these dangers together.

"Heather, did you get my message about Walter?"

Heather perked up and nodded, "and then I saw Little Walter soon afterwards. But I don't understand what he meant."

"Walter's dead," Eileen interrupted, staring at her husband in disbelieving horror.

Heather shrugged, "Silent Hill is hell."

Henry placed his hand on the top of the van door and tapped his thumb against the metal thoughtfully. He did not look at Eileen. "He may have meant a lot of things. Walter's clever. He only had a few words to give me; he would have made them count."

" 'Harry Mason and the Marks of Samael...' " Heather gazed out at the surrounding woods and shook her head. "He's-," she chuckled, "he's a little tongue in cheek, recommending to me his _own_ symbol. An entreaty to trust him? But why call it the Mark of Samael?"

"I don't know," Henry told her. "At first Walter seemed to believe you were doomed and he mentioned 'Alessa' eating you. But now I realize he used pronouns and titles to occlude his exact meaning. He could just as easily have been saying that _you_ were going to 'eat' the Goddess."

Heather looked at Henry in surprise. The latter stared at her with surprising intensity.

"He's afraid of you, and he's afraid _for_ you; the only thing he presented clearly was that your true enemy is Silent Hill herself, not this Edwin."

Her brows furrowed. "What? How?"

Henry tilted his head to the side, watching her face. "Deep down, the biggest reason you are still shrouded in fog is because you _want_ to go back in." Her eyes widened. Eileen gaped. "Not just for Valtiel, whom I can see is not with you. You have wanted to go back for a very, very long time. Perhaps for closure... or perhaps to win a victory instead of merely prolonging a survival..." His proclamation rang ominous, loud in the afternoon air as Henry Townshend looked to Alex Shepherd. "Can you stand by her for something like that?"

Alex looked down at Heather Mason and then back to Henry Townshend. "Where she goes, I go," he answered; all traces of hatred, anger, frustration, and betrayal gone. The bad blood he had felt towards Heather Mason not an hour past had vaporized; and here he had not been able to talk to her or to express his relief that she'd come safely back to him. If he was being completely honest with himself, he wanted _desperately_ to gather her up in his arms again and hug her that very instant.

Henry nodded. Then he glanced at his van. "I expected that. We will gather everyone together. If there is any way to help you both from this side, together we will find it. Should the Order bother us, we will be more than prepared to handle them."

"Thank you, Henry. I promise we'll come back in one piece," Heather said softly.

"Goodness, don't. Please come back in _two_ pieces, just as you entered."

Heather crossed her fingers where he could see. "Keep everyone safe."

It was hard for them to split ways. At last, Henry nodded quietly to himself and turned to get in his car. He paused to give Heather one final look, a look of affection; a look of concern. Then he climbed in and shut the door behind him. Eileen followed wordlessly. Henry turned the van around, and headed back the way they'd came. Alex watched as the sky darkened, and an unbelievable fog dropped out of the sky. In moments, the van was utterly gone, hidden behind a curtain of infinite gray.

Heather grasped her boyfriend's hand tightly, and looked around with a puzzled expression. "Is it darker?"

"Than when? I just stepped out of a bright sunny afternoon, I'm not sure I can give you a good analysis of this particular shade of gray."

Heather hesitated and then reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "According to my phone, it's four in the afternoon. If the doctor was right about this, then the sun is going to set soon."

Alex glanced at her. "Let's get back to the lighthouse and hope it's as safe as Kaufmann claims it is."

"Come on, I think I know where we are. We've still got to get back across the lake," she said, heading back the way they'd came.

Alex nodded and hurried after her, clutching her hand tightly. They would have time to talk later, but for now he wasn't about to let her go. He knew she must have had a great deal on her mind after what had happened in the Temple of Valtiel. He was going to have to step things up and compensate for her distraction, because it was bound to be a long and hazardous journey back to the lighthouse that evening. It was his job to get them safely to their destination.

As for Heather, she tried very hard to remain focused on the path ahead of her, but...

* * *

In her mind's eye, a scroll dashed forward, wrapping around the legs of her treasured companion. His fingers clenched reflexively into the balcony, but it did him no good. The scrolls tore backward with such power, such speed, that his fingertips left huge tracks in the metal. He screamed. Heather bolted after him as he scrambled, kicked, writhed, grabbed on to anything and everything in his path.

Metal cracked and buckled behind him, opening up huge gouges around the Halo of the Sun. The scrolls tried to drag him downward. They tugged his lower body straight over the ledge. Heather pounced, grabbing his arms, giving him just that extra little bit of staying force. His fingers burrowed into the metal and his momentum ceased, his lower half dangling into the newly made hole.

"Valtiel!" she finally found the breath to scream. The metatron wailed.

"Heather!" Alex shouted behind her. He'd followed her, but with Elle in his arms he wasn't of much use; and he wasn't about to set his childhood friend down with all those scrolls on the loose.

His hold was failing. The scrolls twined up his leg, slicing into his skin, gaining a further hold on him. Heather was reaching for the Seal in her pocket when they suddenly yanked on him, jerking him and her both forward. She jammed one of her knees under a pipe and grabbed at him again with both hands, struggling to hold on to him. Valtiel yowled frantically. They scrolls yanked again, and the force nearly snapped Heather's leg. This time, the two of them cried out together.

_"Heather!"_

The Mason girl opened her eyes. She stared down at Valtiel's ovoid face, his fingers curled knuckle deep in the sheet metal beneath him. Just part of his chest was above the hole now, and both his legs were captured. Her brows narrowed at the expression on his face, on the unspoken meaning that passed from him to her.

"No," she breathed, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "I just _told_ you. _No_."

The metatron gazed at her. Quite suddenly she felt no panic from him, no desperation, no fight. His expression was calm.

Heather felt a rage build up in her. Her fingers clenched tightly on his arms, and tears built up in her eyes. "Don't leave me."

Every muscle in his body clenched. He pulled himself just an inch higher onto the metal floor and, to her horror, released the ground with one of his hands. The remaining arm shook violently. He lifted up the free hand, towards her face, towards her tears. The red leather brushed gently over her cheek.

_"Valtiel!"_

The look he gave her was one of adoration, sadness, joy, concern. He was apologizing to her. She gave a frantic shake of her head, eyes wide, face streaked with tears.

_Do Not Be Afraid,_ the eyeless face watched her._  
_

Fourteen scrolls lifted into the space behind him, poised like serpents, divine scriptures glowing red.

_Have Faith._

Heather screamed.

* * *

There was no light of any kind, because there was no source from which light could originate. There was no sky, no surface, no height; only infinite depth. All was covered in an ocean of darkness. The world was endlessly churning tunnels, like bowels, but branching everywhere and yet nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere was the only name for this place, this place of ooze and mud and filth, where any motion meant crawling through an endless sprawl of slime and refuse. Without light, there were no eyes and no colors (except, maybe, red), and so there was no beauty. Everything writhed, everything churned, everything twitched and moaned and squabbled in the rusty mud. This was the purgatory between minds, left over in the dead husk of an idea, in the space between dreams, in the void between worlds.

Existence itself was merely symbolic.

Though he could not see, the angel was aware of the other things that moaned and twisted in the endless darkness. They writhed in the mud, clawed at it, ate it, secreted it; searching for life where they were was none to be found. He was delicate enough, soft-footed enough, to walk above the mud. He climbed at times to avoid the questing fingers, the helpless grasping, of those creatures too pitiful and lost to remember him. The psychopomp, the angel, would avoid destroying them for as long as he was able.

There were other spaces, spaces different from these tunnels. His usual haven was cold, unmoving, empty; a place of death and silence. Then also there were spaces that had been given identity and purpose, though all were degrading without a mind to maintain them. It was in the mud that the last remaining traces of warmth still lingered. Not light- light was too transient, too fragile- but heat. Down here were the great kilns and forges, abandoned and dead of flame, but still warm with the ghost of creation.

It was rare for any nook or cranny of the mud to go unoccupied; it sustained the undulating hordes of mindless sadness, spirits too fragile, too weak, to venture out into the cold. There was only one such uninhabited alcove, one where the heat turned oppressive, dangerous, violent. He climbed into that space now, into a curved space of filth and rot and metal.

He crept closer towards a set of jagged bars, but the form inside did not budge, did not acknowledge him, did not speak. The silence, and the terrible, unbearable heat made him ache. He'd lost something, and he was hoping the other would help him remember _what_.

But no pity was forthcoming.

Something had been cut from himself, the psychopomp knew. Something was missing.

Silence and stillness answered him.

He begged of his twin for help. Whatever was now missing had once been unbelievably wonderful. Surely the other should feel his desperation; the two were as one kin, one spirit, stretching and straining to the extremes of an idea, trading, blending, merging, always connected.

There was suddenly movement! The devil lunged forward. There was a terrible slam as his chains extended to full length, and his helmet clanged hard against the bars. The cage and irons had been forged by him, for him; They were the chains of God's Mercy to bind the force of God's Hate.

**_You Blasphemed,_** the demon told him, voice rolling like thunder from beneath his enormous crimson helm.

The psychopomp was almost panicked, both by those words but also by his sudden refreshed awareness of the missing _something_. He twisted his head back over his shoulder and looked at the dark pits in his shoulder blades. Something new, something great, was gone.

_**There Is No **__**Sky**__. __**You Blasphemed**__. _His twin sank back in his chains and then lowered his hands. They were bound in front of him by enormous gauntlets about his wrists, permitting only enough range of movement that he might use them for a single task task. Now he dipped his hands into the endless filth, and lifted up a thick and oily gob. He pulled the mud up like a potter might shape clay on a rotating table. It solidified, took shape under his heated palms.

The angel asked what his twin was doing.

_ **Saving You. Again.** _

Disappointed that his twin would not help him, but already losing interest in whatever had gone missing, the angel shrugged contemptuously and departed. As he went, he noted that tongues of lightless flame were following him almost menacingly; and he wondered disdainfully what God's scribe was irritated about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this makes Valtiel the damsel in distress? XD
> 
> I consider this to be a big turning point for the story. I can't call it the midway turning point, because it's not in the middle, and there are two or three after this. But it's one of them. After this we will get a brief quiet before the storm, and then plunge into darkness.
> 
> So, cross your fingers for Alex Shepherd! Someone accused me of too much fluffy shipping... and I never shipped Heather x Alex to begin with... MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!


	28. Eileen Would be Proud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Glances at Chapter Title.*
> 
> I'm going to guess the red herring romance gets consummated once before everything goes to hell.

When the sun left the horizon, the sky went black almost instantaneously. Loud air raid sirens blared over Toluca lake. The ambient volume of the air rose behind it, a tide of rushing black fervor crested by a cacophony of screams, roars, rattling chains, shrieking metal, and moans.

Alex and Heather were still on the lake when the water began to bubble and churn. Then the lighthouse came on, bright, beautiful, golden. The rotating beam cut a swath through the fog; as it turned, it left an open sphere of clean air in its wake. Alex tossed Heather a paddle and the two rowed violently the last couple yards, gliding into the safe zone as hands clawed against the sides and bottom of their rowboat.

They entered the lighthouse's embrace safely; the hands did not pursue.

When they reached the dock, Alex jumped out first and the two of them tied up the rowboat. They said nothing to one another as they approached the front door, where Michael Kaufmann was nervously awaiting them. He opened the door and hurried them in to where Lisa had prepared supper for four. Alex gave the physician a grateful nod, but Heather's vision was so narrow that she scarcely seemed to notice him at all. Both men watched her in concern as she deftly stripped off her outdoor ware, arranged her shoes, hung up her coat and scarf, leaned her submachine gun up against the nearest parlor couch, and then headed into the kitchen. Lisa smiled at her uncertainly.

Kaufmann looked up at the soldier with a, "What happened?"

"We saved Elle, but for some reason Heather can't leave," Alex explained. "And... we lost Valtiel in the process."

"You _what_?"

Alex looked at the psychiatrist. "You're sure this place is safe? I've never seen anywhere like it in Silent Hill before..."

"I'm sure. Come, let's... let's eat, and you can explain."

"Does your secretary know what's going on?"

"I've explained it to her, but she's halfway between shock and disbelief."

* * *

Their dinner was chicken cordon bleu with tossed vegetables and mashed potatoes. Lisa, the cook responsible for so much culinary goodness, was very quiet as Alex related the happenings of the day from his perspective. Kaufmann listened to the story in full before turning to look at an unusually quiet Heather Mason.

"Heather...?"

She didn't respond or look up from her plate. Alex frowned because Heather had been very articulate only an hour previous. Beside him, Kaufmann reasoned she was in the middle of an emotional crash. He was also trying to decipher what the loss of the metatron meant.

Kaufmann tried talking to her again. "Heather, we ought to discuss why you are still here. The winter days are short and you only have so many hours of sunlight; you will need some idea which areas to explore come morning. "

Heather Mason kept eating. The Seal of the Metatron weighed heavily in her pocket. Too much had happened that day, and her insides were frozen in exhausted panic at the thought of recounting or trying to understand any of them. The door, the Seal, the room, the scrolls, Valtiel... She set down her steak knife and ran a hand through her hair. Residual black oil came off on her fingertips, and she looked at it.

Kaufmann frowned. "Heather... Did the Pyramid creature touch you?"

She pressed her lips into a thin smile. Something in her snapped- just a little- and her frustration channeled itself into a nasty little barb. "Oh yes. Quite provocatively at that," she drawled a little smugly. "Wrapped its tongue around my neck to taste me and pawed at its skirt to undo the belt buckles."

Alex stiffened, settling down his fork and staring at her, his face unreadable. She didn't see the gesture, or it might have stopped her from continuing.

"I laughed at it and scolded it till it walked away. Maybe it was Alex's sexual frustration, and it couldn't handle the humiliation." Silence answered her as she stabbed a piece of broccoli and at it; She finished, licked her lips, and then looked at Kaufmann and propped her arms on the tabletop. "I've a better idea. How about you tell me why _you_ are in Silent Hill, first?"

The doctor remained quiet a moment, silverware forgotten. "You look overwhelmed," he noted.

Heather laughed. "I'm done for the evening, doctor. I'm eating my dinner, and then I'm going to bed."

Kaufmann frowned and breathed in as if to protest. Heather's eyes narrowed.

"White Claudia," she said sharply.

The doctor stiffened as if he'd just been stabbed, and all color flushed from his face. Heather watched him with an almost predatory intensity. He held her gaze for a moment, and then he looked away in shame and picked up his wine glass with a shaking hand. "We'll wait till tomorrow," he agreed, and drank the wine in honor of his last night as a living man.

Silence permeated the room for a moment. Then Lisa Garland stood up. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked in an accusatory voice, looking from Heather to Kaufmann. The doctor jumped in surprise. Alex furrowed his brow.

"I thought you had already told her about the _Otherworld_?" the younger man asked.

"I..." Kaufmann hesitated.

"Go on," Heather cooed sweetly, her voice edged and almost violent. "Why don't you tell her why you're both _really_ here? Why don't you tell her why she doesn't look her age, or how she knew my father?"

The doctor looked at her in surprised; things were moving too fast for him to follow all of a sudden. "Heather," he murmured, trying to recollect his wits. "Don't. You're not yourself-"

The room seemed to grow a little darker, but perhaps it was just the look on Not-Quite-Heather's face. "_Don't_?" she uttered in vicious disbelief. "You were there. Didn't you hear me plead the same? Do you think saving your own ass with that herb was penance enough? Or didn't miss Garland show you otherwise?"

Kaufmann's eyes widened, and he shrunk down into his seat, uttering weakly, "Alessa-!"

It took neither psychic nor psychiatrist to realize something had gone south; Alex darted to his feet, coming up behind Heather and wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. "Heather Mason," he whispered in her ear, and kissed her.

The woman in question jumped slightly, as if startled out of some waking nightmare. She blinked in sad fear for several heartbeats, then gripped her silverware tightly, digging her fingernails into the decorative molding, ducked her head a little, and looked miserably down at her food.

"What. Is Going. On!?" the table shook as Lisa Garland stood up and slammed her palms flat against the dining room table, demanding some explanation for all the mysterious talk. Everyone looked to her, even Heather, but no one spoke. "Well?!" she demanded. "What are you all hiding from me? You think I can't take it? You think I can't handle myself? What is going on!?"

"You're dead, Lisa," Heather said quietly. "You and Kaufmann were both devoured by the _otherworld_. You're ghosts, tied to this place. You're both dead. "

The secretary jerked back as if struck. "That- that can't- no! What are you talking about? That makes no sense! I'm not dead-" she had caught sight of Kaufmann's gray expression and pleading eyes. "No," she whimpered. "I'm not dead. No one's dead... I..."

Heather watched her quietly, a pained and resigned look on her face. "You were a nurse addicted to White Claudia. Kaufmann was its purveyor and by leveraging the drug against you, he convinced you to take care of an extremely burnt little girl in the depths of the hospital. That girl was Alessa Gillespie. You died when her nightmare turned almost everyone and everything into monsters."

Lisa had been stepping back away from the dining table, shaking her head.

"That's how my father Harry Mason met you," Heather explained. "You were still manifested in Silent Hill. And as a monster, you killed Kaufmann right before he was able to leave."

Lisa turned and bolted from the room. The dining hall was silent. Alex watched after the fleeing woman in pity and disbelief and then slowly looked back down at Heather; She was staring after Lisa Garland's departure with an agonized look on her face. Alex shook his head and then looked at the doctor questioningly. Kaufmann nodded quietly.

"Then why the hell do you exist?" the soldier demanded keeping an arm protectively on Heather's shoulder.

Kaufmann looked at his hands in his lap for a moment, before shrugging helplessly up at Alex Shepherd. "One theory is that we are here to help her."

"One 'theory'?" Alex asked, moving around the table, from Heather to Kaufmann.

"Heather needed a psychiatrist and couldn't find one who would be gentle with her. So she made one. Out of the spare parts that were lying around."

"She never chose any of this!" Alex disagreed angrily.

"Silent Hill only cares about the subconscious, and Heather has strong ties to this place. By the time she visited me, she was causing Harry Mason to manifest. It is not so strange to think she simultaneously manifested me; that doing so was a subconscious effort to save herself."

"Then you aren't real," Alex observed. "You're it's creation."

Kaufmann leaned forward on his hands again, looking at Heather, "This lighthouse is also your creation, Heather."

The blonde looked at him slowly, eyes sad.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alex snarled.

The doctor took a deep breath, "Every survivor, every victim of Silent Hill who escapes... Their hell is created from their subconscious, and yet somehow each _otherworld_ always contains enough ammunition, enough open doors, enough weapons, enough first aids kits, for them to escape."

The soldier frowned at him, not quite understanding.

"That comes from their will to heal, to survive, to become better. I am a tool. Like a crowbar, a shotgun, a first aid kit, or an open door. I am a registered mental health professional with unique insight into the human subconscious and also therefore the mechanisms of Silent Hill. Heather, I have helped you before, and I will do it now." He reached for his glass of wine and took a shaky sip, trying to regain some semblance of normality for what might possibly be his last real dinner. "Whether I am real... or not real," he added.

"You called me Alessa," Heather whispered.

Kaufmann looked up at her. "I suppose most tools can't feel fear," he lowered his gaze again, "but I am keenly aware of my own transience. And my past sins. You should get some sleep, both of you. The days will not get easier."

"Why should we trust you to help us?" Alex asked suspiciously. "We can rarely trust real people not to drown or immolate us."

Heather shook her head, setting down her eating implements and touching her partner's arm. "There's no black and white here. We have him, and he's behaved altruistically towards us. That's all we've got. That's all we'll get." She looked at Kaufmann. "I'm not her, and I don't hate you."

The doctor looked to her quickly. His eyes were focused with some intense and clearly painful emotion. When she stood up, walked away from Alex Shepherd, and pulled the older man into a hug, it was all Michael Kaufmann could do not to burst into tears.

Ave Maria.

* * *

Eileen had unclasped her seat belt and was twisted around in her seat to fuss with Elle Holloway's blankets. So when Henry Townshend slammed on the breaks, he also threw an arm across her and kept her from flying into the windshield.

"Henry!" she cried out in surprise, a little startled but unharmed. Then she realized her husband was very tense, and a slightly blank look of mild revulsion was on his face. Confused, Eileen twisted about in her seat.

A Robbie the Rabbit doll was perched in the middle of the highway. "Robbie!" Eileen exclaimed, quickly popping open the passenger seat and rushing out to scoop up the doll. Henry flinched and scrambled out of the vehicle after her, looking rapidly around for any potential threat or low-lying cloud. She didn't notice, but he was shaking. "How did you get out here?" she wondered, examining the doll and realizing that it was her own. "It must have fallen out of the back of the car somehow..."

"Eileen," Henry croaked, "please get back in the car."

Eileen glanced back at him, looked at the doll in confusion, and then shrugged and hurried back to the doll with it under arm. Henry watched her as intensely as a bird of prey might watch its next meal. "What's that?" he asked her as she came near. Eileen blinked down at the doll and then realized there was a piece of paper tucked in its suspender pocket. She pulled it out in bewilderment and turned it over.

"An old post card, I think. I wonder how it got in here? Tol... Toluca Lighthouse..."

Henry looked up at her face, down at the doll, then up at her again. "In the car," he pleaded. She nodded and got in on the passenger side, as he got in on the driver's. He locked the doors as soon as she was inside, took a glance back at Elle, and then stared blankly ahead at the road for a moment. When he finally grabbed for the stick shift, he threw the car into reverse.

"Henry?" Eileen asked in confusion. Her husband executed a three point turn, till their car was pointed back towards Silent Hill. He hesitated a moment. Eileen looked down at the postcard and then back up at him. "Where are we going?"

"The lighthouse," he said aloud. He nodded to himself and then pushed the gear shift to drive.

"Heather told us to rally everyone. What if it sucks us in?"

He picked up her cell phone and handed it to her. "Start texting."

* * *

Alex guided Heather upstairs to their bedroom with an arm around her shoulders. She walked slowly with her eyes focused off into memories. When they had entered the room, he wrapped both arms tightly around her and gathered her into a tight hug. The gesture lured her partially out of her malaise and she blinked up at him wearily. "Alex?" she ventured.

"For coming back to me," he explained quietly. Heather shuddered. The day seemed to fall down on her shoulders like an incredible, amorphous, suffocating weight. She sagged into his embraced, her face buried gratefully against his chest, and oozed her arms about his midsection. "What happened down there?" he asked. "You weren't yourself for a moment."

"Alex... it's like..." Heather took in a shaky breath, then stilled when she felt a hand caress gently over her hair. This was a strange and novel sensation; to be in the early stages of despair, and to have another human being touch her affectionately. Even though Alex Shepherd had been sharing the same bed with her for almost a week; even though Valtiel had lived with her for months; physical contact remained an alien but pleasant surprise.

Humans needed to be touched, she thought. And the Townshends were right; she carried far too many burdens alone.

"Sometimes I feel like I know the answers to why certain things happen. They're just hovering there, outside of my vision, and if I turned my head quickly to the side I'd see them. And... and I need to know the answers. But they're so overwhelming, so mind-blowing, that if I managed to catch sight of one of them it would shatter me. And I'm just so tired just thinking about them... I'm so tired of half-knowing things that terrify me... I just want to go and sleep somewhere away from them for awhile..."

Arms tightened around her. A shudder, not of fear, but perhaps of laughter rippled through Alex Shepherd. Confused, Heather opened her eyes to see the man  
smiling at her.

"So you do have soft spots after all?" he asked her mirthfully. "Well, I'm relieved."

"What...?"

"I was beginning to think I was unnecessary," he teased, ducking his head to kiss her face.

An initially pained, but steadily relaxing smile managed its way onto Heather Mason's face. "So you're saying I jeopardize your feelings of manliness?" she teased deviously.

"No, you expended all your super powers on the Boogieman. You're incredibly sexy when you feel vulnerable," he tossed back at her, nuzzling into her throat.

Heather closed her eyes for a moment, reveling in the attentions as her arms slipped up from his waist to his neck. Stress, exhaustion, fear, and uncertainty were channeling into more productive, if seemingly unrelated emotions. "Mmm men," she murmured. "Always needing to protect something. And here I thought I looked good with a gun."

"You always look good," he whispered, and thumbed the black goo in her hair for emphasis. "We should take a shower."

Both young adults looked at one another. There had been an accidental invitation in those words.

"We should," Heather agreed. He blushed a little, holding her gaze to make sure she knew what she was saying. She took his arm and tugged him off towards the bathroom.

When they arrived she shut the door behind him and then promptly seized his shirt by the hem and pulled it up and off over his head. Slightly taken aback by her forwardness, Alex did his best to cooperate. When she started unclasping his belt, he grabbed her shoulders in surprise.

"Heather!" She jumped a bit and blinked at him. He studied her face worriedly. "Are you okay? Is this okay?"

Heather was quiet a moment. Then she pulled back from his grasp and looked him up and down sort of curiously. Feeling a little awkward, Alex also took a step back and clasped his arms self consciously across his chest. The tile floor of the bathroom offered scarce insulation, and the lighthouse was somewhat chilly at night. Which was good. It was helping him not think about-

She took a step towards him again, and placed a hand gently on his chest. The fingers traced downward, over his sternum, down towards his belly, over the flesh of his abdomen, tracing each muscle. Her touch was very warm, and by the time it paused against his naval the cold air was no longer able to conceal his excitement.

The look Alex Shepherd gave her hovered somewhere between utter helplessness and intense need. Heather smiled a bit, sort of amazed by him. After the day they'd been through, despite her provocative touch, he was still too good a man to act without her explicit verbal permission. He would rather suffer then risk hurting her or letting her hurt herself. His self control was crazy.

A pang shot through her. She was in the _otherworld_. In Hell. She was going to have to kill cultists, face monsters... She might lose him, Kaufmann, anyone...

_...Valtiel..._

Alex had taken a step towards her and leaned over slightly to look into her eyes. He was touching her face."Heather...?" His voice cracked pretty badly. Heather laughed slightly, raising her hands to his cheeks.

"I don't want to go back in there thinking I might die with regrets," she told him. "And I don't want to just sit here tonight feeling broken and inconsolable wondering what the hell I'm going to do tomorrow and how I'm going to rescue something that barely..." She shook her head. "I'm not afraid of you." She pushed up against him, earning a slight jump from her partner and a surprised facial expression somewhere between pain and arousal. "Any of you. ...Touch me."

He took in a deep breath and then nodded to her. "Then..." he began and then hoisted her up by the hips, pressing her against the sink so she could straddle him while he undressed her.

* * *

The lighthouse had been restored in recent years. When Henry and Eileen arrived, there were several cars in the parking lot, including Heather's. The lights were on in several of the rooms and the front door was unlocked. Eileen knocked once, then twice, but no one answered.

"Should we just go in?" she asked. Her husband shifted Elle's weight in his arms and then nodded.

Inside was deserted. Papers were set about neatly on the receptionist's desk, and a clock ticked by thoughtfully in a room that doubled as living room and atrium. A little fountain gurgled pleasantly. But as Eileen called 'Hello?' through the halls, no one answered. She glanced at her husband. He shrugged and gestured for the staircase.

They found an unoccupied guest room (one that Henry knew wasn't occupied by Alex and Heather) and settled Elle down. Eileen pulled some fresh clothes out of her own suitcase and settled them down on the bedside table.

"This is eerie," she said in a hushed voice. "Do you think Dr. Kaufmann got pulled into the _Otherworld _as well? Heather didn't mention anything..."

"Had a lot on her mind," Henry suspected.

"Why do you think _we_ were supposed to come here, then? Are we going to wake up and find everything shrouded in fog? They asked us to take care of Elle..."

Henry glanced at the Robbie the Rabbit doll his wife had set off to the side. He repressed a shudder, and turned his eyes back to her face. "I think as long as they're alive, we're safe. And somehow we can help them from this side. We just have to figure out how."

"Well, I mean... do you have an ideas?"

He glanced at Elle. "Let's bring some blankets in here and bunk on the floor. We probably shouldn't leave her alone with real-world cultists prone to kidnapping her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry: reluctant to tell his wife that A) He still dreams of the Otherworld and B) The last time he tried to dispose of her Robbie the Rabbit Doll, he woke up to her sleep walking and talking in Little Walter's voice, telling him it's not nice to take other people's things.


	29. Not Living in Fear

"It's an hour before dawn."

Silence.

"Are you going to be able to get up?"

A soft moan.

Heather grinned down at him, leaning over him with her palms resting on either side of his head. "Five," she purred. "Five times. What have you to say for yourself?"

A hazel-gray eye peered up at her blearily. "Aren't you sore?" his voice crackled.

"Like I sat on shrapnel," she agreed. "But _way_ too happy to care." She ran her hand over his hair and back, scratching gently over his scalp and rubbing his skin. He mumbled softly and incoherently. "I was _joking_ when I mentioned 'sexual frustration' at dinner."

He made a contented noise, and in a quiet voice mumbled something like, "The sounds you made were to die for."

Heather pinched his rump and he jumped, clutching at the fabric around him. Then he shot her an evil look over their blankets and slumped back down against the pillow with a groan, draping his forearm over his face. She laughed, ecstatic and positively glowing with energy. "I was always under the impression that men got more out of this than women," she teased him. "You must be a defective model."

He lifted his arm and gave her a look; the sort of look he'd given her the first time they'd discussed the subject of cuddling. Heather laughed. "How did you amass all this bedtime knowledge? How many women have you slept with exactly?" she asked.

He closed eyes and lowered his arm again. "Why any woman would ever ask that..." he muttered.

"That was _wonderful_," she cooed to him.

"Did I hurt you?"

She made a derisive snort, indicating she'd had worse bug-bites. His attempts to mitigate her discomfort had been successful. "Did it _sound_ like you were hurting me?"

"The Internet," he answered her previous question sleepily, already not thinking clearly and trying to roll over.

"Wait, what?"

He realized what he'd said and opened his eyes, looking at her in alarm. "Just- research-!" he blurted out, before realizing how stupid that sounded in context and slumping back down with a groan. "I mean...!"

Heather was grinning broadly. "I see, I see. And what 'key words' were you researching, exactly, hmm?"

Miserable that he was having this conversation, her partner mumbled out through a buffer of blankets, "How to hit the G Spot."

Heather burst out laughing and snuggled up against his back, wrapping her arms around him. He listened to her heartbeat against his skin for a minute or so, before turning slightly and looking up at her. "We've got to get up," she reminded him.

He reluctantly nodded. "No regrets?" he asked tentatively.

She smiled and kissed his mouth. "None."

As the two slowly pulled themselves out of bed, Alex paused and looked curiously at the bedroom door, where a flash of bright color caught his eye.

* * *

Henry waited till he heard Eileen's breathing level out before he sat up and extracted himself from her side. He spent a moment watching her, listening to the small sounds of life she made, observing the rise and fall of her chest. Then he turned and carefully teased open the zipper of his luggage. A glanced showed him his wife hadn't stirred. Elle was still unconscious. He carefully extracted something wrapped in an old plastic bag- something he'd kept secret for a very, very long time. He stood up as quietly as he could, tiptoed across the room, and then eased open the old door and closed it behind him. He had to exert a little pressure upwards on the door handle to keep the hinges from squeaking; it was an old building after all.

Once he was outside and the door was shut quietly behind him, he made his way over to Heather and Alex's room, and peered inside. There was nothing within, no luggage, but the neatly folded bed had been creased lightly, as if someone had briefly sat upon it. Mr. Townshend looked around, observing the many tiny details such as paintings on the wall and hairline cracks that signified this room as the same one he'd visited in his dream.

There was a very old cedar chest to his right. The metal bands of the chest were heavily worn, but an etching of a German ship could be seen, next to a faded date formatted as Day - Month - Year. The dashes and part of the year had been worn away, but Henry reasoned the trunk was almost two hundred years old. It had probably been manufactured in 1821, on the twenty-first of January. Very conveniently, the only numbers still visible were 21 1 21.

It took Henry a moment to gather his courage, and then he set the bundle down on the bedspread and carefully untied it. From within, he extracted several pieces of bright red paper, a black marker, and a very old ragdoll.

Quite suddenly he was struck by the oddness of what he was doing. Why was this doll significant to Heather Mason's current predicament? Why did Henry feel like he had to get it to her? A shudder rushed through him. The _otherworld_ and all things Silent Hill had a very unpleasant, dream-like quality to Henry Townshend. He made nonsense logical jumps as easily and effortlessly as if he were really going through a dream. If he saw slips of red paper, of course it made sense to push them them under his own door so that later they would have messages on them, right? Sometimes he wondered if he was a little crazy.

Reciever of Wisdom indeed. Wisdom didn't necessarily imply understanding; only experience and intuition. Why was this going to work? He couldn't explain it. But it _would_.

He quickly wrote a message on a red slip of paper. "Check the cedar chest. Something tells me you'll need this. - H. Townshend." Then he opened the old chest, placed the doll carefully inside, and slipped the red piece of paper under the bedroom doorway.

* * *

Heather regarded the old doll curiously as she settled down at the breakfast table. Lisa was not present that morning, and Kaufmann would glance worriedly in the direction of the Lighthouse staircase at every little creak they heard from upstairs.

"How is she?" Alex asked, still not sure if he trusted these two 'ghosts' or manifestations or whatever they were.

"Angry," Kaufmann decided, "and very sad."

"What exactly do you remember of... of before you... 'died'?"

The doctor hesitated. Breakfast that morning was toast and fried eggs with yogurt and some fruit. It wasn't as artistic as it might have been had Lisa prepared it, but given that Michael Kaufmann rarely cooked, it was still something of a success. "Memory like that is... hard to explain. I don't remember what it's like to _be_ that man, because he's barely part of me anymore. So it's like a collection of things I've forgotten, that require a certain environmental triggers to pull back to mind. And then it's like watching some horrible first person video of my body under someone else's control."

Heather tucked away the doll into a shoulder pack she was wearing for the day's journey. "It's kinda like that with Alessa's memories too," she said aloud. "As much as I look like her, I'm _not_."

Kaufmann nodded. "Do you know why you are still in Silent Hill?" he asked. Alex glanced at her but didn't say anything.

"I... I'm not exactly sure," Heather said slowly. "The only times we've ever seen anyone get pulled into Silent Hill, the Goddess was trying to be reborn, or memories were being repressed. I haven't repressed any memories. Does that mean Edwin is after me for the Goddess?"

They both ate a little of their food as Kaufmann considered her question. Then he looked at her. "Do you have a destination in mind?"

Heather hesitated and then looked to the doctor. "I dunno. There's a startling lack of cultists popping up to give me misleading clues. This all feels really creepy. Like having the same dream a second time, and wondering if you can just skip straight to the ending. I know where all the cult hideaways are already, I could head straight for this bastard Edwin. But... but this place has always been like a maze... An intricate maze..."

"Every person who comes into Silent Hill does so with a _goal_. Yours was to find Claudia Wolfe. Harry's was to find his daughter. James was drawn to search for remnants of his dead wife. Why are you looking for Edwin?"

Heather hesitated. Then she quickly scrambled for her shoulder pack and pulled out the shabby old doll.

Alex looked at her over his toast. A look of uncertainty, frustration, loss, and fear flashed over her face. She seemed as if she felt exceptionally guilty; her face mirrored the one he'd seen back in Canada, before she'd told Henry much about... The soldier took in a slow breath and then took the blow for her; he looked to Kaufmann.

"What do you know about the thing she calls Valtiel?" he asked. Heather jumped a little.

Kaufmann blinked, surprised by the question. He stirred his eggs about for a moment and then settled his silverware down on the plate and clasped his hands in front of him. "Why do you ask, Alex Shepherd?"

"It revived Elle. So what is it? Some doll of Alessa's? A demigod? Or just a strange nightmare?"

"In cult lore, Valtiel is one of the deities created by the Goddess to help her bring order to the world. When I first saw him, he intended to unmake me. Some instinct told me he was protecting Heather, so I plead for my life, promising him I only intended to help her. He seemed to listen." Kaufmann thought a moment. "The name that came to my lips was 'Lobsel Vith,' the Yellow God. As Valtiel he is titled 'Metatron' or 'Attendant to the Goddess.' And he is the patron of the Sect of Valtiel, the cult's executioners. In that aspect, he is more commonly associated with the color 'red;' the cult's beliefs tend to blend and melt and merge around sort of indistinctly. That's what happens when a religion is several thousand years old. Some would say he's in charge of healing and childbirth, others like the Sect of Valtiel insist he is a deity of death; still others associate him closely with their symbol, the Halo of the Sun, and the complete cycle of life and rebirth."

"He's still a Silent Hill monster, though? Like anything else, like... like the dogs and the numb bodies and..."

"Silent Hill's religion isn't the only vague thing around here. The _otherworld_ adds a whole new level of complication. Is anything here 'real,' or does it all come from the human mind? I cannot answer that question. What I do believe is that the 'Valtiel' boogieman we've seen is altered by Heather Mason. Whatever explanations we accept, religious or psychic, this boogieman's benevolent disposition is highly significant. Heather, if you need to find him, then follow the impulse. It's not as insane as it sounds."

Heather looked up at both of them, at the psychiatrist who was a ghost and at the man who'd voluntarily accompanied her back into hell. "So," she said slowly, "'My semi-imaginary evil-god monster-pet got kidnapped and I want to rescue him,' is an acceptable reason for being stuck in Silent Hill?"

Kaufmann smiled and then stood up. "Come with me, Heather, I want to show you something."

* * *

The top of Toluca Lighthouse was completely exposed to the elements, and a chill wind was blowing in from under the lake. The globe of clear air extended for fifteen or twenty feet above the tower, but then an impenetrable wall of fog blotted out the sun. Heather pulled her coat tight about her shoulders, her blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind. Alex was just about to put his arms around her when Kaufmann gently took her elbow and led her away from the staircase.

"So what's up here?" Heather asked. Kaufmann paused almost dead center and looking around them both.

"Try to remember back to your father's journal," he told her. "Harry was only at Toluca Lighthouse for a very short period of time, but this place was significant."

Heather frowned, trying to remember. She'd read that journal a thousand times, but she had that unpleasant feeling in the pit of her gut that she was just barely dodging one of those things she didn't truly want to know.

"What do you mean?" Alex asked, coming up to join them. "You forgot your scarf," he noted to Heather.

Kaufmann smiled at this little show of affection between them. "This is one of the only places Alessa Gillespie physically appeared to Harry Mason." Heather frowned, not liking where this was going. The doctor caught her expression and his face softened a little. "Normally I would be most content to let you heal at your own pace, Heather Mason. But... now isn't a time to hide."

The blonde looked up at his face. Then she closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and reached into her pocket.

A wave of heat rippled up around her legs, and a ghost of orange light cause her to blink her eyes open rapidly. Alex and Kaufmann were looking around themselves, at a burning Mark of Samael. IT was enormous, encompassing the entire top of the lighthouse. Within seconds, snow had melted and water was running down the sides of the lighthouse. Heather took in a strangled breath. Both men look to her.

"Heather," Kaufmann explained as gently as he could, praying that she would be able to hold herself together. "You are _not_ Alessa Gillespie. But you _do_ have her gift."

At the terror on her face, Alex took a protective step between her and the psychiatrist. Heather grabbed his arm. "It's okay," she gasped.

"It's not," Alex perceived. "This hellhole isn't your fault."

"Please," Kaufmann begged of the soldier to listen. "I am saying this because I want to _protect_ her." Alex kept Heather behind him, facing down the doctor. Feeling strangely like he was pleading to Lobsel-Vith all over again, Kaufmann tried to make his case. "It is only after they destroyed Alessa's innocence that she gained the tools to defend herself. I don't want to see the same thing happen to Heather."

"What do you want? For her to remember what it means to be Alessa so she can tap into these abilities? If you've forgotten, the little Gillespie girl _did_ all of this!" he gestured around at the fog.

Kaufmann took a deep breath. "Alex Shepherd, if Heather could walk away this moment, would you advise her to?"

"Of course!"

Kaufmann nodded. "You don't see what she sees."

Alex scowled angrily.

"If she goes back, she will spend her entire life living in fear of this place. She will always have to live on her toes. She will never feel safe bringing children into the world. And she will never live a day of her life believing she will actually make it to old age." Alex shrunk back, surprised. Kaufmann smiled sadly. "She has waited all this time to come back. She's here to kill Silent Hill. Part of her wants to believe that scattering the cult again will be enough. But the truth is that if Alessa made Silent Hill this way, then Heather Mason stands a reasonable chance of _unmaking_ it."

Alex frowned, looking back at Heather. His partner was staring at nothing in particular, eyes wide. He looked back to Kaufmann. "Alessa was a badly damaged and very angry little girl. Her childish sense of justice turned this place into a slaughterhouse."

Kaufmann gestured around them. "This was a place of power for Alessa, where she inscribed the Seal of the Metatron and where her memory still lingers. Alessa was using it to prevent the birth of God." Alex blinked, and Kaufmann nodded to confirm the younger man had heard correctly. "Heather intuitively understands something about Silent Hill that we _don't._That _no one_ else understands, not even the cult. Something important that's taken over the whole of her gut instinct. The only example of another psychic she has to learn from is Alessa herself, but that doesn't mean we want her to turn into Alessa."

The soldier considered these words. Heather was still clutching his arm tightly. After a moment he stepped back and eased an arm gently around her. "What do you think?" he asked her, concerned.

Heather seemed to come to as the sound of the question. She looked up at Alex's face, and then around her where the Seal of the Metatron was slowly receding. "I don't feel like I know anything special," she whispered. "I'm terrified."

Kaufmann nodded. "You ought to be."

Heather shook her head, rubbing her brow. "Alessa was _suicidal_."

The doctor nodded again. "Stop second guessing yourself. You aren't Alessa, and you won't act on her desires. Your abilities don't come through her like she's some kind of filter. They're _yours_. Do you still want to get to Valtiel?"

Heather looked at the doctor. She imagined a mental picture of the angel, and was hit by a wave of pain as she remembered how he was torn straight out of her arms. Then she nodded.

"Michael..." she said slowly. "I could hear what he was thinking."

The doctor blinked.

Heather closed her eyes. "Valtiel. 'Hear' is the wrong word. I _knew _what he was thinking. When Xipe pulled him away... ... ... He told me to let go. He promised me it would be okay, and apologized he couldn't stay longer. He... he told me to have faith."

"Have faith?" Alex asked shakily, surprised by this genuine sign that Heather was Alessa's heir. "In _what_?"

Heather shook her head and opened her eyes. Kaufmann was watching her strangely "Where is Walter Sullivan's grave?"

"Sullivan? The murderer? Near the old Wish House Orphanage, if I remember. But that grave's empty."

"It shouldn't matter," she reasoned.

"Why go to an empty grave?"

"Because the previous inhabitant has been trying to get my attention for a few days now. And if I avoid him any longer, he might start giving Eileen nightmares."

Kaufmann blinked and frowned. "I've been meaning to ask, Heather... Did you dream last night?"

"No, I don't think so," Heather Mason lied. Then she added a grain of truth, "Or if I did it was just a big hodge-podge of things that didn't make any sense together."

* * *

The demon was there, sculpted carefully into one of his many shapes. He stood at the end of the hallway, and there was no escape on either side. She was in a dead end, one lined with rusty hooks and chunks of human flesh. She frowned at the demon. There was malice about him, a hostility that went beyond raw power and transgressed into personal hatred. He advanced on her, blade shrieking.

Something was wrong.

His steps were not labored. The knife glided over the ground. A dark and oppressively hot aura rippled out from him like smoke, an unholy and righteous conviction, an overwhelming hatred.

Ah.

This was _not_ a regular Red Pyramid. The walls crunched in as it walked, crumbling, tearing apart. Terrifying, bloody, fingernail scratches traced across the floor. The form of this monster was the same, but the spirit was different. She turned entirely to face him, amused by the power she saw. Where once there had been a simple machine, a cog powered by a smoldering lump of coal, now there was flame. This one was embodying the demigod. He truly hated her; hated her just because she existed- but more, hated her for all she was, all she had done. Bugs spilled out from behind him in waves, overlapping his feet, scuttling towards her.

He had reached her. She shook her head. The avatar- the _Smith-_ lifted up the blade as effortlessly as if it were nothing but a weightless fencing rapier.

"He's mine," the raven-haired girl told him.

The demon reeled back, releasing her, smoke flaring around him like unholy wings. Alessa didn't budge, staring him down. He stumbled a step backwards.

"He is mine," she repeated. "Go ahead, try to wash my scent from him; My mark won't budge. And you? You're just another toy. Or perhaps a whore for whomever's willing to give you a momentary purpose."

The demon stepped forward again, facing her square on, smoke roiling hatefully about him. She wasn't even talking to him. She was talking to... A low growl rippled out from his chest. The helmet lowered aggressively, fingers tightening on the hilt of the giant blade. The heat was oppressive against her skin.

"Well?" she prompted. "Shoo."

She'd pushed him too far. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned the hilt of his blade against the nearby wall. She lifted a brow, then gasped as he suddenly lunged at her, grabbing her in both hand and hoisting her up. One hand held her aloft just by clutching the flesh and cloth around her collar, tearing her skin in places. The other hand pulled back and then dove forward. It plunged into her midsection, twisting into her intestines and organs. The fingers flexed. She contorted. Then they grabbed at one of her kidneys, seized hold, and ripped the organ free, jamming it up into her liver and lungs.

She spit up blood, blinking in surprise. Then a wide and vicious smile split open her face. She looked at the enraged deity, and then burst out laughing at his antics. "You're hopeless," she mocked him.

Unbelievable rage rushed over him. He grabbed her left arm, hooked the other hand back into her internals, and then pulled her arm straight clear of her body. Ribs snapped, her spine cracked. She kept laughing, choking on blood. He slammed her into the wall of hooks, grinding his hips into her, suffocating her with his weight and smoke.

But that was not the end of the dream.

Tongues of flame grabbed him. They clenched around his limbs, his chest, with sharp inward facing barbs that burned inches deep into his flesh. They grabbed his arms and yanked them mercilessly behind him, dragging him backwards, undermining his legs. He lunged towards her where her destroyed body slipped helplessly from the hooks and landed with a grotesque splatter on the ground. She lifted her head, looking up at him in surprise as he howled and thrashed, the tongues binding his arms together, dragging him farther and farther backwards.

Wide-eyed the girl lifted up a shaking arm, covered in blood. As he was being jerked backwards he watched this gesture, watched her reach for him and then sag downward in agony.

The avatar of the demigod roared in miserable frustration because his prey was so very close. He gave a violent toss of his weight and then managed to catch himself against a ledge. The architecture cracked. He screamed in defiance and thrashed as one of his making had not done for centuries; they had never had such life, such fire, so much hate. A few of the flaming tongues snapped under his might; but more replaced them. It wasn't enough. Something vital to his makeup was simply absent.

His howls grew desperate, frantic, anguished. He was not going to be permitted to complete his task. Worse, he was going to be prevented from even _trying_.

Heather Mason lifted her head back out of the blood, and scowled at all the screaming. She looked angrily in his direction and then tried to wriggle forward. The lack of arm wasn't helping. "For fuck's sake stop yelling!" she snarled at him, her first genuine words. The sound of her voice was rough, real, human. "Maybe if you hadn't torn me limb from limb I'd be able to _help_ you, you ever think of that?!"

The avatar jerked his helmet towards her, disturbed by what he'd just heard. What?

"Oh sod off!" she hissed, trying to crawl forward. "You and I both know I'll be fine!" The walls cracked more. Heather bit her lip, trying to drag her agonized and useless body just a few inches forward. Then she lay her head down and strained, reaching with her arm. A long black tongue twitched out from under the helmet, wriggling hesitantly towards her. Rubble was falling from the ceiling. Heather winced, straining with all her might. "Come on," she wheezed, using her toes to get her forward just a little farther. "Come _on! _You need to touch my hand!"

The tongue retracted sharply. The Smith roared hatefully at her and then ducked his head, trying to use his helmet as leverage to pull himself away from the flames. Heather loosed a colorful stream of swears. Then she stared at him, shaking her head.

"The hell are you?" she whispered to herself in confusion and awe. He writhed under the tongues of flame, skin smoldering to black. She shook her head again, not comprehending what she was looking at. "I don't even..." Actually, it was rather hard to see. Her vision was fogging up, and on top of it the flames didn't seem to be giving off any light. The only light source appeared to be centered around Heather herself. Rational thought surfaced. She was waking up. The Smith struggled forward one desperate inch, and light reflected off the edge of the flames. The fire almost seemed to be linked into _words_.

Heather's eyes opened wide. Instinct rushed through her, brightening her vision, anchoring her just a moment longer. She lunged forward a few inches.

"Demon! Take my hand!" she ordered the monster, stretching her palm forward.

The Smith roared at her.

"I don't fucking care!" she exclaimed frantically. "I'll help you anyway; take my hand!"

A tense moment passed. The black tongue inched forward hesitantly.

"Take my hand! There's no time! Come on!"

There was a crack as the Smith was dragged backwards several inches. A chunk of the ceiling high, high above them gave way and began to fall. He shrieked in furious despair, tongue darting out towards her, desperate not to be denied his prey.

Then the world went dark as the ceiling hit down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream Logic: The monster who tore off your arm is in need of rescuing!
> 
> Looking back with the perspective of years, 75 chapters, and having just assembled many of my notes and the epilogue on discord, I'm surprised how well I managed to foreshadow key milestones and even the final (and at that time unwritten) scene governing Heather's uneasy interactions with this lovecraftian diety of anger and justice. Even the fact that the ceiling's collapsing in their first and final scenes 'together' is correct.


	30. An Unexpected Rescue

The couple looked down at the empty grave curiously. Someone had extracted the coffin and opened it, but no body was inside. The headstone was marked 11121, which Heather seemed to remember was relevant to the 21 Sacraments Henry had gone through.

"So... I've heard of Walter Sullivan. I thought he died a long time ago," Alex began.

"It's complex, you'd have to know Henry and Eileen's entire story and you only really know about their monsters. But basically he _did_ die. He was his own eleventh sacrament. Something about the complex way he died allowed him to... survive."

Alex nodded, reasoning that made about as much sense as anything else. "They said Sullivan was possessed by Valtiel. And we know Valtiel can revive people."

Heather nodded thoughtfully. "Brings back the old question of whether all of this is psychic-induced or religious. Walter was clearly something 'special' to the people who manipulated him. He might have been like Alessa."

Something had been on Alex's mind. "When they say 'Valtiel,' do they mean your Valtiel specifically or is more like... how James and I saw different Boogiemen?"

"Not sure, but I think it's the latter. Your Boogiemen and my Valtiel may also be related, though a little more distantly."

He grimaced. "So the child-murdering, masochistic, father-judging, monster-raping variety of otherwordly monster just happens to also like baking Christmas cookies with you?" He lifted a brow at her.

"Yup, I'm a weird one," Heather agreed. "For reference, if they really_ are_ all the same thing, Valtiel hates the smell of bleach..."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time a giant Pyramid Monster has me trapped in a laundry room and I've run out of Hail Marys."

"Could save your life."

"So... what are we looking for? We're at Sullivan's grave, but... I'm not seeing any clues."

Heather bit her lip, reaching out to touch the headstone and then looking over at the Orphanage. "That building burnt down in the real world," she noted to Alex. "It's the old abandoned orphanage where he was raised."

"Sounds like an invitation inside. Your new friend is playing hard to get."

"Don't cultists always?"

"What are you hoping he'll be able to tell you?"

Heather shook her head. "Something in me just says to track him down. Maybe if I'm lucky he'll be willing to talk with me. I've been helped out by cultists with conflicting goals before."

* * *

Heather was flat on her back. The monster's warped and distorted head was inches from her face, its sagging gelatinous eyes waggling grotesquely from its distended eye sockets. She was pinned. There was no way she could get her gun free fast enough. What would she shoot at, anyway? The monster was covered in heavy armored plating; her bullets hadn't touched the thing. Its mouth loomed closer to her face. Heather swore viciously. Then she wished she could hit herself when suddenly its toothy mouth peeled backwards, along with all its head carapace, revealing a fleshy, vulnerable red interior. Of _course_ it had a soft spot. Of course. And now she was going to get eaten by a giant Penis Beetle. The head dove for her. The inner teeth came straight at her face as if in slow motion. Her eyes widened. They were inches away from her skin.

The monster's head _exploded_. Its body gave a violent twitch and then it was writhing off of her, waggling its headless upper half around in an agonized frenzy. Heather scrambled back from it and looked over her shoulder.

Alex Shepherd was on the other side of the enormous rift in the Orphanage. He was down on one knee and had his rifle barrel pointed in her direction. Heather looked back at the monster, which waggled about a short while longer before collapsing back on itself in a heap. She shifted her weight a moment, pulling her Uzi up to a more comfortable position. Then she reached down and pulled out her cell phone. The chasm was really big and she didn't want to shout over it.

"So," she asked, when he'd answered. "What mental help class did they teach scopeless precision sniping in? Was that after Monday yoga or before Thursday's biweekly knitting seminar?"

The grunt she received in exchange told her that he was still high on adrenaline. She smiled as she stood up and dusted off her pants, cracking her back and looking at the scrapes and bruises on her shins and forearms. She walked over to where she'd dropped her katana earlier and picked it up.

"Hey, Alex?"

Grunt.

"Breathe, sweetheart," she giggled. "I'll go through the clues I found first so you can catch your breath."

"It's a lot bigger in here than it looks on the outside," Alex said slowly.

"It's all distorted," Heather agreed. "This is like a terrified child's muddle interpretation of a big and scary maze-like house... All warped and dreamlike."

* * *

They had gone through a winding tunnel where the floor rotated along the walls and ceiling. The unnatural spiral was disturbing to look at, emphasing the fact that the real world equivalent of this passage had been very unsettling and traumatizing. When they heard the telltale sounds of dripping water, Alex nodded to himself.

"I think this is water prison we saw the kids writing about earlier. I'm remembering from the bestiary, wasn't one of Henry's ghosts from here?"

Heather nodded. "I don't think that passage behind us exists in the real world."

Alex looked behind him and then winced. Heather glanced back. There _was_ no passage behind them. A childish giggle rattled up all around them, through the old copper pipes and the water. It echoed off of every surface, bouncing eerily back and forward, coming from every direction at once. The couple glanced around and reflexively grabbed at eachother's hand; they were starting to get used to Silent Hill making them take different routes, and neither of them was very fond of it.

"So what do you remember Henry saying about this place?" Alex asked slowly when the laughter had died down and nothing malicious had happened.

"Henry said... He said it was once a prison, with a very efficient mechanism for disposing of bodies. The Wish House Orphanage was run by cult members, and they would disobedient children in some of the cells if they misbehaved or weren't prudent with their schoolwork. He said that... Walter Sullivan was made to spend a lot of time in here, even if he behaved."

Alex grimaced at her. "Wasn't he like... four or five?"

"And a very good little religious student too, I'm told. Apparently the warden, Andrew, was killed by Walter as one of the later sacraments, after Henry was already involved. Andrew hadn't believed in the cult God or enforced any rules but his own temper; so his ghost was made to constantly singing her scriptures." She looked at her partner. "You know how I mentioned Alessa has a perverse sense of 'justice'? Well she's got nothing on Walter's Sullivan's taste for poetic irony. Alessa died angry and bitter, but vehemently anti-Order. Walter was a consummate and heavily brainwashed fanatic."

Alex thought of Eileen. "Suppose it takes a cultist to pick the only person who's ever been kind to you as your highest form of sacrifice."

Heather shrugged.

"He's here then? That was a kid's laughter..."

Heather started forward. "Probably. Can't imagine anyone else would be leading us on this goose chase."

"We're running out of daylight hours. I don't know if we have enough time to search this whole tower. It was big to begin with, and looking at it, it's just as distorted was the Wish House..." He blinked at her and then let her tug him along. "You know where we're going?"

She shook her head. Alex smiled. She lifted a brow at his expression. "What?" she asked him.

"Nothing, I'm just thinking about how this is probably going to go."

"What?" she repeated in a different tone.

"Well," he drawled, "he'll probably say really cryptic information about your emotional state, mixed in with a riddle and a long winded religious speech about how God is this and that and everyone you love is going to be saved by being made into meat pies, and then he'll turn into a monster and try to kill us both. Then we'll be left more or less where we started but with a growing sense of doom that we are somehow running out of time, and a large wealth of half-assed clues that we won't even understand until we've already finished our quest and been gone for at least six months."

Heather laughed, then paused as she pushed open the door of a round cell.

There was a soft gurgle of water. Then the doors to the tower slammed shut in unison and locked.

There was a tremble above them, and Heather and Alex looked upward to see large gobs of oil pushing their way through the seams of the prison. They oozed together in an oily black bubble, writhing and wriggling, half-formed shapes just visible beneath their surfaces. Then tendrils were pushing their way out of its, ribbed in some places with bones, bent at strange angles in others. Fingers reached out and grasped at the air, then retracted and popped up in other locations.

"Or, you know, he could just be a giant monster to start with," Alex grumbled, "and all we end up getting out of it is some ceremonial knife or a red-colored book with nauseating prose. You have any idea if this is him?"

Heather frowned up at the writhing gobs. They were wiggling and jiggling their way out from the wall, so that the whole mass of them resembled a giant mass of fecal matter. "Walter?" she called.

The mass trembled. It contracted, twisted, contorted, greatly reducing itself in mass as the liquid spun itself into bones, skin, muscle. Moments later, a large but vaguely humanoid shape was decending down the side of the wall the wall, dripping with tar and sporting twenty-one writhing, tail-like limbs of ooze instead of normal legs. The hands were spun into long black claws. As it reached the ground, long tooth-like blades grew out from the floor and wall. The tar rotted backwards into the wall, creating a cave-like aperture and a long glistening black tunnel beyond.

"That's lovely," Alex decided. The humanoid figure writhed excitedly. Then it propped itself up on its long tails and the upper body lunged at them.

"Move!" Heather shouted, elbowing Alex behind her and bringing up her Katana just in time. The scythelike claws hit against the blade with tremendous force, sending her skidding backwards an inch. The upper body wriggled and then retracted away from her, pawing at the air excitedly. Alex scowled and lifted up his shotgun, aiming at the mass.

"Great. Always wanted to fight a giant piece of shit," he hissed and squeezed the trigger.

The ooze hissed, the upper body wriggled, and then the whole mass was retreating backwards into its 'cave', it's tunnel, and bleeding from sight. Dark spots started appearing all over the walls.

"I think you made him angry," Heather decided.

"He thought you were very pretty", Alex chided back, "seeing you have a boyfriend is a huge let down." Then there were clawed ooze monsters lunging all over the place. Heather lifted her sword and shoved her back up against Alex's, slashing away at the bladed fingertips behind him. The soldier lifted his gun, firing on an opening sludge tunnel and then quickly looking for another target when it almost instantly retracted. He saw a slimy body rear up to strike, and jerked himself and Heather both to the right. Claws sailed right past their left ears.

"Duck!" she called. He obeyed, lifting his rifle and firing above them. Ooze splattered across his brow. He got one hand behind him and shoved her back up to her feet, while bracing his gun against his shoulder and firing on his next target one-handed.

"This is insane!" he called after several minutes of ridiculously rapid dodging. "It's not slowing down at all!"

"Well-" she was cut off as something lunged at them from high up on the right and she had to spin Alex out of the way. "Watch out cause now it might speed up!"

Alex swore, ejecting a clip and then dropping the weapon and grabbing Heather's Uzi off her shoulder as a head came flying at him. He jabbed it with the butt of the weapon to get it to retreat. "Can't keep up with this!" he growled.

"Well maybe _you_ can't!" she laughed. "Do you see any environmental shit that might help?!"

"Not unless he hates water," Alex snarled, firing off several rapid bursts and then swiping one of Heather's legs out from beneath her as something came streaking at her blindside from the left. The blow went over her head but skimmed the back of his coat. He winced, spraying the bullets in an arc till she could stand.

"I need to get out the doll Henry gave me!" she shouted back. "It might help!"

"The last time I gave a doll to someone, things didn't go so well!"

"Well at least we'd be getting somewhere!"

"Alright, get down!"

Heather obeyed, dropping to her knees and rummaging rapidly through her backpack. Alex made rapid footwork around her, using the Uzi as recklessly as he dared. He wasn't looking forward to reloading a gun; steak-knife fingers were diving at them from all sides.

"Someone really liked knives in life!"

"You're lucky he doesn't currently have his pistols. Got it!"

"This better-!" Alex cut off as a set of finger tips sliced through his forearm. Pain shot up his shoulder and he stumbled to the side, rapidly switching the Uzi to his non-dominant hand.

Heather jumped to her feet, holding up the doll towards the wriggling black forms. "Walter, look!"

She didn't know why she knew this would work; but it did. The monster went very still; tar-encased shapes seemed to peer down at her, no longer wriggling so much, necks craning. Heather took in a long, slow breath, steadying herself.

"I brought the doll," she said slowly. "You remember it, don't you? Walter?"

The many shapes were slowly bleeding back into the walls. Only one of them in front of Heather continued to stare, its vacant face focused intently on the shabby doll.

"It's the doll Eileen gave you, isn't it?" Heather continued softly. The doll, her use of his name, and her tone of voice seemed to be having an effect on the monster which, if she weren't so hopped up on adrenaline, would have seriously freaked her out. "You gave it to Henry. He's kept it all this time. It's kind cute, a little old though. A porcelain face, and the rest is like a rag doll."

She definitely had its attention. Alex was kneeling by her side, trying to stem the flow of blood from his forearm. Like Heather, he'd never seen a Silent Hill monster behave this way. People, ghosts, and puzzles could be interacted with using symbols and metaphors; monsters only fought. He was still holding the Uzi. He kept his eyes fixated on the ooze creature.

"Walter," Heather continued in a soft voice, as if she were talking to a child. She took a more protective stance in front of Alex and shifted a little closer to the monster. The creature's 'gaze' followed the doll as she held it up a little higher. "Do you remember Eileen?" she asked as she stepped nearer to the wall. "She's a really nice lady. Very gentle, very affectionate, a little eccentric but we all like her that way... She's a mother now, did you know that?"

"Heather," Alex whispered, not sure if this was good information to be telling a giant monster. But the creature seemed to be entranced by her. Heather stepped closer and closer to it. Alex winced and carefully tried to follow. The oozing creature moved a bit. It glanced briefly at Alex and seemed to tense up. The soldier froze, not wanting to aggravate it.

"Walter," Heather crooned soothingly. "Would you like to hold the doll? You must be very lonely here..." The creature looked back at her uncertainly. Its gaze locked again on the doll and it held still for several moments. Then slowly, carefully, it started climbing down through a wall of tar covered spikes and teeth. Its mass leaked outwards to forming additional spikes and pitons, so by the time it reached Heather's level it was more human-sized.

Heather smiled, and then gave the doll a gentle toss. The monster recoiled slightly at first, but as the doll reached the apex of the toss and started to descend it changed its mind and lunged forward, grabbing at the dirty porcelain face and wispy cloth. A ripple shuddered over its frame, and then laughter echoed up from all around them, from the water, from the pipes. The creature climbed up a little further again, still holding the doll, its shape solidifying slightly. The ooze started looking less light spilled oil and more like drying rubber; then a moment later strips of it began tearing back from the frame, revealing skin and cloth beneathe.

Mischievous green eyes peered down at them as Walter Sullivan lifted up the doll, turning it over in one normal human hand and one tar-covered oozing one.

"I wasn't sure you'd come find me," he said in a soft voice, smearing dark blonde hair from his face; the tar still covered him up to the neck and had trapped most of his hair in place. "I'm not _your_ monster, after all..."

Heather straightened slightly, studying the remaining human fragments of this unfortunate man. "Hmm. Never seen you in person. But if I'd have to guess, I'd say you aren't looking to good. And you've got this awful black smudge on your cheek, might want to wipe that off."

The murderer's eyes brightened and his mouth curled in a wide and unsettling expression of glee. "What does the little blasphemous Witch Queen want?" he asked of her. "Mother told me never to talk to unbelievers."

"I'm looking for advice," Heather explained to him. "And you've been bothering me since I've got here."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he feigned innocence, toying with the doll. "He kept it."

"He felt sorry for you."

Walter giggled. "He ruined everything. But I will be with Mother again. Oh she's so unhappy with me. She eats me from the inside out... She tears me apart, remakes me, restores me." He closed his eyes in blissful masochism. "It will be awhile before I am clean..."

Heather frowned, looking at the tar she now realized was oozing from Walter's _core_ as opposed to occluding him from the outside. "Walter, if you've got advice to share with me, then say your piece. I'm looking for someone, and don't have time to waste."

"Some_one_," he murmured, looking down at her thoughtfully. "What you're looking for... its not a person, is it?"

"He is to me," she retorted. "And by the looks of you, Walter, he's more of one than you are."

That hit a nerve, apparently, because Walter pouted at her and shrunk against the wall a little. Heather hesitated, a strange compulsion overcoming her to apologize. She'd done this entire thing on gut so far, and she supposed she ought to listen to her instincts now. "I'm sorry," she hazarded after a moment. "I'm frustrated, and shouldn't take it out on you. Something else is making your existence hell enough already. But do you have any advice for me?"

Sullivan looked past the doll, down at her intently. He tilted his head to the side, clever eyes curious but now slightly viperous. "Why should I help you? You do not believe in Mother. You _killed_ her. You're a murderer, an unbeliever, a blasphemer, the lowest and most wretched of the low. You should drown here, like he did, so you can sing her praises." He scooted forward eagerly. "I can fix you," he crooned. "I can make you hers again, fill you with joy at her splendor once more..."

Alex shook his head in disgust, standing up slowly behind Heather. "Let's get out of here," he growled. "This _thing_ is making me sick."

Walter blinked at Alex and then broke out laughing. "Suppose we have two men who know how to drown something unwanted, mm?"

The soldier's eyes darkened, his hands coiling into fists. Walter grinned, leering excitedly at Alex. Heather grabbed the latter's arm and pushed him backwards. He blinked. "Heath-"

"Chill," she told him. "He's not going to hurt me. His 'Mother' wants to eat me personally, isn't that right?"

"So Henry did talk to you, that's good," Walter purred. "You're here foolishly, you know. And you're going to die."

"We'll see. Well, can I have my doll back?"

Walter stiffened. "What?"

"My doll. You said Henry could have it, and Henry gave it to me. You don't like me very much, and I guess I'll be leaving, now. So could I please have my doll back?"

Walter Sullivan- or what was left of him- gave her an utterly heartbroken look. Heather tilted her head to the side curiously, and something instinctive, something protective, tore at her insides. "Walter," she said, in a much quieter tone. "Come here." The monster hesitated, shifting his weight and looking at the doll in his hands. "I won't take the doll," she promised, lifting her hand towards him. "Come here."

Slowly, hesitantly, Walter tucked the doll under the crook of his arm, and then reached down for the spines beneath him. He crawled, inch by inch, the last few feet between his level and hers. Alex didn't say a word as she lifted up her hands and gently touched the destroyed man's face.

Heather studied him, his curious expression, the amoral gleam of his eyes. He had no concept of right or wrong, except as flowed from the cult's teachings. He was spiritually barren. There were parts of him that instinctively knew he had been abused; and yet others that relished the abuse. She gently pushed a few free strands of dark blonde hair out of his face, and then stood on her toes and placed a kiss upon his forehead.

"Go back to sleep," she encouraged him. "No one has been very kind to you, neither my mother nor yours. You're in a lot of pain now, and you should get some rest while you can."

The monster dropped the doll. He recoiled from her, into the wall, into the oily tunnel that opened up behind him. His eyes were wide, the white showing round about the iris. "What?" he asked, confused. Then tar started pooling around his exposed skin again. A frantic look rushed over his face. He tugged desperately away from the newly forming goo, loosing terrified gasps of air. "No, no, no," he pleaded, his sounds becoming more and more pained. Heather stepped back, startled. He tossed and writhed as the slime wrapped around him, piled on him, caused spikes and blades to jut outward from his back. A scream echoed out from between his lips and he continued to thrash, pulling and tugging at the goo. His tails started to reform. The teeth and blades and spikes of the tunnel began closing around him, tearing him apart, ripping the tails off one at a time, burrowing through his waist and limbs.

Alex winced, then started forward in alarm as Heather gathered up the doll and started climbing up the slick tar.

"Walter!" she called in alarm, a painful image of scrolls and piteous shrieking flashing through her mind.

The monster laughed, an agonized, bubbling moan. "Just go," he cooed, "just go. Run. Run." He laughed again, cried out in pain, and then giggled hysterically.

"What- what did you want to tell me!?" she asked him, trying to get up to the opening.

"Mother's going to eat you, sister," he chanted in butchered sing-song. "Sister, sister, mother, sister, _run, run, run_."

Through flickering images of a young boy with a bowl-cut hair style, she pressed her arm and the doll into the tunnel opening, past blades and the globs of oil that were dissolving him away to nothing. Her fingers brushed against his arm, but he shuddered in terrified resignation, pulling away from her.

"I deserve this," he whispered, so softly Alex could not hear. "They were babies... They were little babies... Like me... like you..."

Heather looked into the trap. Sad, terrified, laughing, mocking, fearful, concerned, playful, agonized, miserable, lost eyes looked back at her. 'Mother' wasn't the only thing eating Walter Sullivan. Based on the monastery episode, Alessa's sense of Justice had as much a hand in this as the God's own. And his words suggested self-hatred.

"Walter, take the doll," she said, and then, with a bizarre and twisted understanding, remembering a roaring monster from her dream, "Take my hand!"

He was quiet a moment, watching her. "What are you fighting for?" he whimpered. "What is there to save?"

"Heather, stop!" Alex called. "It's a monster, it's not a person anymore! Just a memory! You're going to lose your arm!"

"Trust me," Heather pled, not to Alex, but to the strange and unfortunate creature trapped in Silent Hill. The monster watched her miserably without understanding what she was doing.

"Heather!" Alex grabbed at her, "there's nothing you can do! There's nothing anyone could do!"

She winced and leaned further into the trap. "Walter," she said in an unthinking rush. "I forgive you. I want to talk to you. _Believe_ me that I can get you _out_. Take my hand! I _forgive_ you!"

There was a desperate lunge. Slime and calloused fingertips engulfed her hand. Heather released the doll, wrapped her hand around the touch of the other's, and pulled. The tunnel clenched against her will, then shuddered and spurted oily goop. Heather swore, jamming her other hand up under the edge of it, shoving upwards. Alex turned about and sprinted for her discarded katana. The 'jaws' of the tunnel wriggled and heaved against Heather's pull, buckling upwards and downwards, heavy spikes receding up into the mass. She grimaced and tightened her grip on the slime-covered hand.

"Hold on," she encouraged. "Don't let go." Cords of black fiber snapped, spikes deflated and crumbled like rubber. Alex returned hurriedly to her side, and tossed her the katana. Heather grabbed it in her unenclosed hand and jammed the tip several inches into the mas. She sliced across, then upwards, and gave a final diagonal sweep to try and break some of the 'tendons' that were holding it all shut. There was a moment more of firm resistance. Then the ichor-filled trap burst outwards, vetting shapeless ooze and globs of black slime back out into the world.

Tendrils clutched tightly on to their prize, rooted into him, growing from him, into him, within him and around him. Heather threw an arm around the still-dissolving black-frame. She ran the edge of her katana over the goo, then pushed her fingers into it continued to tug. The goo contorted, writhed. Then some skin was free. More followed, then blue cloth and a whole arm; the edge of the collar bone and the shoulder and the neckline of a coat... As if struggling with a particularly gross and tenacious amniotic sac, Heather continued to tug and slice at the goo, always careful not to cut too deeply.

Inch by inch, bit by bit, she tugging the mass down to ground level, where Alex Shepherd watched with a disgusted and fascinated expression. Then it was as if a tension cord snapped, and the goo wiggled free of the rest of the body in a very grotesque manner, slurping back up into the core of the tunnel. The task was done.

Beneath a mane of shaggy blonde hair, two terrified green eyes looked up at her from over the tiny head of an old doll. Heather peered down at the frightened creature that had tumbled into her lap. This version of him was younger than her by the looks of him, ragged and dressed in clothing befitting an awkward street urchin in a cold winter climate. He hugged the doll against himself.

"Better," she said approvingly, trying to catch her breath. She was feeling very lightheaded all of a sudden, and her thoughts were coming together incoherently. She wiped a dirty forearm over her brow and then looked up at Alex.

"What just happened?" the soldier murmured. "How did you... this shouldn't be..."

Heather smirked. "I used my superpowers on a boogieman," she mumbled. Alex's eyes widened. He took a step towards her, but as she fainted dead away, the person who actually managed to catch her was Walter Sullivan, who twisted quickly out of his supine position and threw an arm behind her back.

A long moment passed in tense silence. Walter stared mesmerized at the blonde-haired reincarnation of Alessa Gillespie for a very long moment. Then he slowly looked up at Alex Shepherd.

A supernatural serial murderer known for trying to make nice ladies walk into blenders was currently holding Alex's girlfriend.

The trip back to the lighthouse was really awkward.


	31. Breather

When Laura Sunderland pulled the rental car into the lighthouse parking lot, she saw that Douglass had already arrived. She knew Douglass had taken a new job in recent years and subsequently earned several impressive promotions. It showed in the make of his vehicle. Laura gave an impressed whistle, peering curiously out at the 1947 Cadillac perched beside Henry and Eileen's modern rental.

"The best money he's made his whole life, and the detective saves it all up for a genuine gangster car," she laughed, and then looked across the middle of her own vehicle. "You gonna make it?"

Sitting in the passenger seat, James Sunderland took in a long and quavering breath, his hands still pressed firmly over his eyes. He hadn't moved from that position since the duo had left the airport, and every muscle in his body was clenched to the point that he was shaking slightly.

"Yoo-hoo? Dad?" She waved a hand in front of him.

For a moment, James didn't respond. Laura pinched him. He nearly leapt out of his skin and then shifted his hands. Pink-rimmed eyes looked out at her from between splayed fingertips. Laura propped her cheek against her closed fist, and leaned against the steering wheel.

"Need a moment?" she teased.

Her father watched her for awhile, struggling with the fact that she had no memory of the things that terrified him. Well, she couldn't just pretend she was afraid, now could she? Actually she was rather curious to see if she'd finally glimpse one of these monsters the rest of the group all feared. After a moment, James closed his eyes and smeared his palms over his face, sighing heavily.

"I'll be fine," he promised, the first time he'd spoken to her in hours.

"Right, well," Laura drawled, "if that's the case, I'm going to jump out and have a look at that sweet car-" He grabbed her arm so quickly he might as well have been eternally glued to her. Laura lifted a brow. James eyed her warningly.

"Stay near," he told her firmly.

She pursed her lips and contemplated defying him; Laura was twenty-three years old and way past the age where daddy dearest could order her about. But James so rarely asked for anything that she felt obliged to comply, and so nodded reassuringly.

"Let's go inside then," she offered instead. "I need to take off my shoes, stretch my legs, and text my bf to let him know I got here safely."

He squeezed her arm and then nodded and moved to unlatch his seat belt.

* * *

Heather had a splitting headache. She moaned feebly for some form of assistance, and was relieved when a cool compress was placed to her brow and a thoughtful person supported her head and gave her some water. When her vision clear enough for her to see, she saw Alex hovering over her, concern etched on his features. She tried to say something but could only cough at first. He pulled the water away and she smiled weakly. "Hey handsome," she croaked. "What happened...?"

"You passed out. We're back at the lighthouse."

"Oh. Did I lose any limbs, or am I good?"

He smiled softly. "No, you're good," he promised, and leaned over to kiss her brow. "You can go back to sleep if you want. I was just going to carry you upstairs when you woke."

Heather murmured contently. "A little hungry," she managed.

He nodded. "You want me to get you something?"

"I think I can get up," she decided. "Gimme a moment." Then a flash of realization flew over her face. She sat up quickly and then swore as her headache protested. Alex winced on her behalf and grabbed hold of her, supporting her so she didn't smack her head on the couch armrest.

"Careful-!"

"Walter?" she queried, looking around blearily. There was motion off to the side, and Heather looked to see that the blue-clad, awkward teenager was sitting on a chair nearby, sipping a glass of water in one hand and clutching his doll against him with the other. He'd perked up at the sound of his name and offered a uncertain and fearful smile.

"Okay, maybe I can't get up," she mumbled at last, slumping into Alex's hold.

"Take it easy," Alex told her soothingly, looking up as Kaufmann stepped into the room and peered worriedly down at her. Lisa was right behind him. Heather mumbled softly and then wrapped her arms about her pillow. He smiled and stroked her shoulder for a moment before standing back up and moving over to Kaufmann.

"She's a little hungry," Alex said quietly. "Do you have something that would go easy on the stomach?"

Lisa nodded. "I think I can find something, hold on," she told him, and then hurried off into the kitchen.

Kaufmann glanced after her for a moment. Then he looked back to Alex. He was just about to say something when his attention was diverted to something behind the soldier. Alex blinked and turned around quickly to see Walter had come quietly up beside the couch and was leaning over the injured occupant, a hand lowered to caress her cheek. A spike of disturbed anger welled up in the man, and he might have said something or gone over to push Walter out of the way if Kaufmann had not reached up and quickly grabbed his arm to stop him.

Alex swallowed his revulsion. Bitterly.

"Are you alright?" Heather asked quietly of the man-or teen, really- hovering over her.

Walter nodded and then managed to trust his voice with a hesitant: "Yes." He tilted his head to the side. "Are you?"

"I will be," she decided, wincing.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her.

She grimaced in pain at her headache. "Help you...?"

He nodded.

A baffled expression passed over Heather's face as she tried to think about how anyone could explain their logical reasoning process in a place as convoluted and muddled as Silent Hill. "Three parts defiance," she decided, "two parts curiosity, one part maternal instinct, two parts Alessa flashbacks, four parts Valtiel familiarity, three parts altruism, one part hope, one part sympathy, one part pity, three parts instinct, two parts relatable predicament, two parts need for guidance, one part screaming, one part large, expressive, extremely conflicted, miserable green eyes." Her headache was pounding. Walter blinked at her in surprise. She rubbed her temple and face. "Did I say three parts defiance? I meant seven."

He lowered his eyes, thinking. It was not his interest to query _how_ she had done it; in a way, both of them each sort of _knew_ how without really knowing. After a moment, he looked back at her.

"The thing you are looking for," he told her, "The 'person' whom you are looking for. I can bring you to a place you will be able to see him."

Heather paused and lowered her hand.

"But you won't like what you see," he added quietly.

"Can we go in the morning?" she asked him. He nodded, eager to please. Then slowly, hesitantly, he looked in the direction of an exceptionally hostile Alex Shepherd.

_He doesn't like us talking, _came the vaguely-formed and wordless thought.

Heather, who still had a headache and had been on the verge of fainting or swooning or at least rolling over and hiding her eyes from the light in the room, suddenly became very alert. She stared at Walter for a moment. The young man looked very uncomfortable under Alex's gaze and was hugging his doll more tightly. The lean of his weight suggested he was about to back unhappily away from Heather's couch.

"I don't think it's wise to trust him, Heather," Alex said aloud while walking up to the couch. "For a thousand reasons; not the least of which is because he's a devout cultist."

Heather looked in her partner's direction and then turned her gaze back up to Walter Sullivan. She felt a coiling sensation, strange and indistinct, the feeling of at least seven different impulses all vying for instantaneous expression. Escape was the strongest impulse. The others varied widely, from 'attack,' to' mock,' to 'huddle up and cry.' That coiling was like a _wound_, and a strange and distant part of herself told her that it was a deserved and painful wound, and ought to be _used_.

Heather grimaced in confusion and dismay, trying to get a reign on her thoughts. Walter took a hesitant step backwards, hugging his doll with one hand. He slipped the other hand almost unnoticeably into his coat pocket.

Heather moved faster than her head ought to have allowed. She grabbed the young man's arm just above the wrist, holding tightly and refusing to let him draw it out of his pocket. Her skin crawled where she touched him; she could feel through his skin, to his bones; through his hand, down to his fingertips, to the object he was trying to pull out of his pocket.

Walter jumped and looked at her in surprise. Alex did as well, confused and distrustful of Walter's intentions.

"Don't," the Mason girl admonished the supernaturally infused executioner with more gentleness and firmness that she could have ever mustered towards a real human child.

Walter stared at her a moment. Then he slowly released the knife back into his pocket and withdrew his empty hand. A quizzical and slightly mischievous smile spread over his face.

"Yes, mom," he mumbled in soft and playful obedience.

* * *

"How was the flight, James?" Eileen asked politely, offering a cup of coffee down to the man. Laura rolled her eyes and eyed the older woman with mild irritation. For some reason, Eileen Townshend had never cared much for Laura's father. Laura could never put her thumb on exactly _why_, but through occasionally hints and oddly phrased sentences, Laura gathered that Eileen felt James was a coward.

As a brutally honest and slightly judgmental person herself, Laura was sure James was anything _but_. Cautious? Yes. Scared witless by everything? Yes. But cowardly?

When she was fourteen years old, Laura had been goofing around with her boyfriend on the top of a Ferris wheel while the ride was unloading. The two had been playing a game of chicken. Laura had unlatched the lap bar; her boyfriend had been rocking the seat back and forward. It had all been fun and games until Laura had tried to stand up and slipped out of the seat. She'd barely caught on to a metal bar two feet under the seat, and dangled helplessly by a single hand.

While her boyfriend had shrieked helplessly just above her, James Sunderland had climbed the Ferris wheel-free hand and fetched her down. James hadn't said to a word to her all the way up or all the way down; and he'd fainted dead away several minutes after reaching the ground. Of course, Laura had promptly dumped the boyfriend.

Laura's father was _anything_ but cowardly.

"Turbulence," James answered quietly, dark circles visible underneath his eyes. "Have we seen any sign of Heather?"

Douglass grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck worriedly. Henry shook his head. "Not since yesterday," Henry answered. "I found a method to send her messages and small items."

James shivered. "The _Otherworld_ is that... that accessible?"

"So the foolish kid goes to face it alone," Douglass snapped.

"She brought Alex," Henry offered.

"Great! A kid I've never met whose been trying to get in her pants," the older man growled bitterly. "I'm sure he'll be a _real_ help!"

James blinked, as the Townshends hadn't explicitly mentioned Alex and Heather were together. Henry gave a small and slightly inappropriate laugh, given the solemn nature of the situation. From what Laura could determine, Henry Townshend suffered from severe social detachment, something mitigated by the influence of his socialite wife. She had no doubt that if Eileen died on him, Henry would go mute, remove himself from society, eventually go missing in the Canadian wilderness.

"What's so funny?" Douglass grumbled.

"Alex was a soldier," Henry explained. "She's in good hands."

Douglass scoffed.

"What's happened so far?" James asked.

"Well I'll back track for you in a bit. Basically they were able to get Elle out, but that ended up being Alex's task, not Heather's. She couldn't leave. And Alex," he continued, looking at Douglass for effect, "even after all he'd seen, volunteered to stay with her."

That seemed to appease the grumpy detective a bit. Laura perked up. "They got the other girl out? Elle? Is she here?"

"She hasn't woken up yet," Eileen explained. "We put her up in one of the spare bedrooms. Look the important thing we warn you about- James, Douglass- is that staying here is going to be very uncomfortable. We are going to have to look back into the face of hell. Are you sure you're willing to stay? Neither of you are as young as you used to be."

Both men- James included- gave her a look that could melt stone.

Henry just smiled into his tea.

* * *

_You can hear me!_

_I can hear you._

_I am not your monster._

_Silent Hill's neither picky nor consistent._

_Mother's _very_ picky and _very_ consistent. She's God. She must be._

_You can't even keep track of what you're calling mother._

He didn't like having that pointed out.

Heather smiled. _I can still hear you._

_That's what she's here for._

_She?_

_Xipe._

_What do you mean?_

_The sects, they fight. Do you know the reason I couldn't bring back Mother? Another sect thought we were doing things incorrectly. They documented the ritual to stop Mother's coming, and Henry found it. They are the reason I'm not with Mother._

_Leonard Wolfe tried to help me prevent the birth, too._

_Yes... yes. They all interpreted Mother's word differently. They're _all_ wrong. They fight and sabotage each other. They spit on Mother's memory. Xipe is God's scribe. She will refine the law. She will undo the misconceptions and unite the faithful under one creed. She will establish order where there is none. Her translation of God's word will remove all uncertainty._

Heather frowned where she was cradled in Alex Shepherd's arms.

_Mother is picky. Silent Hill is sick, corrupted, no longer her pure and unadulterated will. The witch queen, the demoness, the mother of God- Alessa Gillespie! Her taint and misinterpretation her manipulations of God's will, her sin, her foul sickness, her hatred of good, these will all be removed. And God's will shall encompass and define everything once more._

_What would that do to the Otherworld?_

_It would be of one mind, _Walter confirmed her fears, _one law, one rule, one truth: God's One Truth. Alessa would be stripped from it. And we would be free to usher in the next age in unity, in harmony._

_Alessa perverted the Otherworld?_

_She put her will above God's! She is both the greatest of saints and the greatest of blasphemers!_

_But it existed before her? It was only God's before her? It had a different sense of 'justice'? It didn't pick up on other minds?_

He laughed joyfully, and she knew it was dangerous to continue questioning him this way. The more she indulged Walter's religious side, the more it was likely that something unfortunate would happen to her and Alex while they slept. _Does it matter? Walter cooed. Soon the misconceptions will be cleared, and we will all know the truth._

Heather frowned. _The truth as it's written by Edwin?_

He laughed in answer, as if repeating his original, 'does it matter?'

_What do you remember of your birth mother?_ she asked him after a moment of thought.

The question earned her a predatory grin. Heather shook her head.

_Easy,_ she said, her tone becoming gentler. _I'm losing you. Come back. Don't go too far, or I won't be able to reach you._

A pause, a few flashes of memory she couldn't make out. Heather's eyes widened, a strange sensation whisking through her mind. Then she was treated to the bizarre and slightly disturbing sensation of watching through the world through her own eyes as a newborn infant. Harry Mason was cradling her, holding a bottle to her mouth. His face and the gestures were indistinct to her, but she could make a few soothing words and most of all his scent. Sadness rushed through her, partially her own, partially Walter Sullivan's. Then she was in the position of another infant, looking up at a man and woman arguing over her cradle Mother wanted her; Father was calling her a whore and claiming he didn't have the money for this. Then everything was cold and dark._  
_

Both minds were quiet and still for a very long time.

_Mother will not let me stay long. She's very upset I'm playing with a witch girl. She will punish me._

Heather closed her eyes. _Don't let her have you.  
_

_I belong to her. She wants me. You saw she wants me._

_Belong to someone else. Do what Alessa did. Free your soul, start over. You're not that different from her deep down, are you?_

The feeling that came across to her was barren, desolate, disgusted. She felt a thousand memories, of a worthless life lived on the streets of a city, of dirt and filth and emptiness.

_And suffer unwanted through all that, all over again?_

_Unwanted?_

_Only Mother took me then. Who else would take me next time? No. I much prefer the quiet soft agony of Mother's love. Xipe will strip all that has happened and return all to its pure state._

Heather turned over these strange and disconnected memories of Harry Mason that Walter had somehow unearthed. She hugged closer to Alex's sleeping form, trying to hold on to that evanescent _scent_...

_Henry and Eileen would want you,_ she told him. _Get some sleep, Walter._

Slightly bitter, Walter added a final vague barb: _Xipe has already purified 'your' angel._

Heather rubbed one of her temples. Okay, now that was going to definitely make sleeping hard. _Okay this is how we are going to do this. I am going to tell you a bedtime story, and then you are going to go to sleep. Deal?_

_What?_

_Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess in a sparkling castle. The princess..._

* * *

Heather adjusted her scarf and took a long deep breath, staring out from the lighthouse. She couldn't see any new cars in the parking lot, but she knew in the real world they were all there. Knowing that James, Laura, and Douglass were all in Silent Hill put a lot of pressure on her shoulders. She gnawed her lip, simultaneously glad they were out of danger and wondering if she had what it took to protect them from getting drawn in. Silent Hill was never exactly fair.

"Are you sure about this?" Alex asked worriedly, coming up behind her and helping to loop her Uzi over her shoulder.

"What? Following a supernaturally infused, boogieman-ified cultist off on a wild goose chase for a figment of Alessa's imagination?"

Alex made a noise in the back of his throat.

"Well, what else are we going to do?" she asked in amusement, leaning back against the soldier's chest and tilting back her head to kiss him. Alex made another inarticulate sound, kissing back and squeezing her shoulders affectionately. Walter watched the two of them curiously.

Heather smiled up at Alex and ruffled his hair. He sidled up against her back and held her tightly to his chest. They shared a moment of quiet affection. Then they stepped apart and Heather adjusted her own weapons. She looked at Walter.

"Warm enough?"

Walter blinked, surprised as always by the concern, but nodded. "Ready?"

"Lead the way."


	32. The First Seal: Impotence

When Heather stepped into the tidy little shop, with its vacuumed rugs and well-swept floor boards, she knew immediately where she was and why. Alex entered behind her, tossing a suspicious glance towards Walter Sullivan. "The Green Lion Antique Store," the soldier said aloud, repeating the words he'd seen above the entryway. "What's significant about this place?"

Walter gave the man an annoyed look and hugged his doll tighter to his chest. "A humble shack atop a potent well," he answered cryptically.

"There's a Mark of Samael here," Heather elucidated. "Through a passage in the back. Why here, Walter? Aside from the Mark, why would this place be significant?"

"The little alter in the back is a font for something larger," the undead cultist informed her, walking towards the rear passage and pushing a new tapestry out of the way. "On this side there's no greater structure underground. But on the other side..."

"Heath, this feels like a trap," Alex told her.

She shook her head. "I expected I'd have to go into hell to find him. But why here, Walter? Why not the amusement park or the hospital?"

The young murderer smirked and cocked his head towards her. "All in good time," he promised warmly.

"Is everything you say a game to you?" Alex growled irritably, coming up beside Heather and placing a hand protectively on her shoulder. "Heather... I don't like this _at all_. I know you've got a special sixth sense when it comes to all of this... But please. Walter wouldn't be the first cultist to use what we want against us, to manipulate us into furthering their own ends... It doesn't take a psychic to see this is probably going to end in misdirection and betrayal."

Walter pouted, but then laughed, eyes gleaming excitedly at the hostile soldier. "How very little you know, madman," he cooed. "How very little you really _know_ for sure. And that's so discomforting, isn't it? Makes you want to jump at every little, teeny, tiny spider... Makes you so sure that if you merely take control, if you hone your skills, you can fix things..."

Alex sneered, disgusted by the otherworldly knowledge Walter seemed to have about his past. "You sick and twisted murderer. You kill the people you hate and torture the ones you admire; there's no fucking way I'm blindly following _you_ anywhere."

"Good!" Walter announced. "You probably won't need to. I doubt Mother will permit either of us to follow her."

The soldier's face darkened.

"Some truths must be learned alone," the young man taunted shyly.

"_Bullshit_."

Heather had had quite enough of this discussion, and before Walter could respond she held up a hand to stop them both and gave them a firm stare. "Alex, Silent Hill has separated us before. Just chill. Walter, are you _sure_ Valtiel is here?"

The young man collected himself and examined his doll for a moment before lifting his head and looking back at her face. "You seek something made to facilitate the journey inward... And I can tell for you that this is an open entryway." His expression took a tone of concern. "You can still leave, sister. And you should. Let go, release, and float to safety. Once they know you're here, once you stake your claim, you won't be able to leave. They are going to unmake you, sister. You should take your soldier's advice and run."

Heather gave her head a defiant toss. "You tell me, Walter, if I leave, will I be safe? Will Alex and my friends be safe?"

Walter hesitated. "For awhile..."

Heather's eyes narrowed. "Will Eileen be safe from _you_?"

Walter frowned, shifting his weight back and forward between his left and right foot, searching for the right words. "But what you want to do can't be done," he said finally, unhappily. "You can't kill Mother. You can't stop the truth from spreading. It will always be. And you can't... you can't..."

Heather waited.

Walter lifted a hand and smeared it over his face, dragging dirty blonde locks into disarray. He looked downward at the shabby doll for a long moment, remembering the girl that had given it to him, and the profound emptiness and sadness he'd... He looked back up at her.

"The Red God is a _divinity_," he told her in a low and amazingly sober voice. "An _idea_, a _force, _an_ ideal_. An avatar of that god is tinted by its conjurer or host. But you cannot separate the god from its divinity. The Red Devil _IS _execution incarnate."

"Valtiel sure doesn't act like he is," Heather argued, confused by Walter's sudden change in demeanor. His face was haunted but quiet in expression. It was like, for a moment, she was talking to a knowledgeable victim instead of to a victimizing cultist.

Walter shook his head rapidly at her reply. "Do not confuse what _is_ with the skin it wears. A white light seen through a red or green filter is still just a white light. I am a host. You are a conjurer. The forms the god inhabits are like mirrors to our souls. But those forms are just skins, not truths. And in your case, Xipe has etched out your craftsmanship."

Heather stiffened at that, a pang shooting through her stomach and up her spine.

"Don't you understand?" Walter plead. "The thing you want does not exist... Except as your reflection in a very dark and broken mirror."

As much as Alex was rather sure Walter had just spoken the truth, he was not blind to the sudden pain that made Heather sag and squeeze her eyes shut. The soldier put an arm tightly around her and tried to give her some strength. They both peered at her anxiously for a long moment, waiting to see what she would say.

At long last, Heather took in a deep breath and lifted her head. Her eyes were a little red from unshed fears and frustrations, but her gaze was firm. "You were possessed by the _Red_ God?" Walter tilted his head to the side. Heather stepped forward, "And the _Crimson _Tome taught Henry Townshend how to destroy your ascended form with _spears_?"

He blinked.

"Henry Townshend, receiver of wisdom; finder of the _one truth:_ The truth that no one truth really exists, that every cultist is contradicted by every other cultist." Walter was dead silent. She could tell he was internally calling her out for blasphemy. But Heather held his gaze triumphantly. "If Xipe can enforce Edwin's interpretation of truth on all of Silent Hill, then she's beyond dangerous because she'll unite the cultists. How did Edwin conjure her?"

A serpentine thing seemed to crawl back into Walter Sullivan, who ducked and evaded the question as if he'd caught himself doing something wrong and was trying to get away. "We'll all soon know the truth," Walter promised her. "Mother's embrace is near. And you, I think, will be the first to feed her. Unlike all of them, you start off already knowing the truth, and you deny it grotesquely."

Heather snorted. "We're standing on a plane of existence where random emotional manifestations can pop out of holes in the ground. This place reeks of ideas, not truths, and I was raised with better principles than to abandon _anyone_ to this hell. Valtiel is in trouble because of me, and I'm not going to run away with my tail between my legs because of a masochistic cultist's religious theories concerning the cosmic make up of gods!" Heather threw her arms in the air.

"Heather," Alex murmured. Heather shook her head and lifted her hands prohibitively in an X to ward off both men's opinions on the matter.

"While it may matter to _me_ whether Valtiel is real or not," she told them, "it doesn't change what I have to do right now. If he isn't real, then Valtiel represents my mental strength and Alessa's powers. I have to pursue him because that's _my goal right now_. I don't get to go any farther until this is done. And I'm not running away from dealing with Xipe."

Seeing both men were effectively silenced, she quickly stalked past Walter Sullivan to examine the passageway into the alter corridor. It had been closed by a wooden door which was engraved with several small shapes. A quick survey of the surrounding area indicated that three of the shapes were in the antique house. A fourth she seemed to remember seeing on the way in.

"What are you putting your faith in?" Walter asked her, confused. "You are an unbeliever..."

"I believe in myself. And unlike _you_ the only thing wrong with my pysche is that I'm a temperamental artist with daddy issues," Heather growled out. "Now help me look for a two inch ceramic angel. This door is being mischievously ironic, and I'm in the mood to unleash a can of whoop-ass on the unsuspecting, Freudian, psychological complexes waiting for me on the other side."

She looked at both men, each of which was staring bewildered back at her.

"Well? Hurry up!"

* * *

"You shouldn't go in," Walter Sullivan told Alex Shepherd when the trio had finally unlocked the door. In the end it had been Walter who'd located the ceramic statuette, but he hadn't pointed it out. Instead, an irritable Alex had investigated what the undead man was staring at. When questioned, Walter had merely shrugged; So Alex really wasn't in a listening mood.

"Where she goes, I go," Alex responded firmly. "What's it matter to you?" Although he really felt like accusing Walter of some underhanded manipulation, the truth was that Sullivan had carried Heather all the way back to the Lighthouse while Alex had been trying to keep his injured arm from bleeding out. The wound was still causing the ex-soldier some problems. If Walter had wanted to hurt or abduct Heather, that would have been the time. Even though Walter could just be waiting for the perfect religious moment to move, Alex couldn't deny the sensation that Walter actually _was_\- in his creepy way- trying to protect her. He'd already told her twice to escape, after all.

Walter shrugged nervously. "Mother has her way of doing things. If she wants sister alone, she will get sister alone. If you try to make that difficult, she will punish you. Your life is not valuable anymore; you are staying here past your welcome."

That made Heather pause. She shared a glance with Alex and then looked at Walter. "You can't come either, can you?" she asked him.

Walter cowered a bit and glanced around the antique shop nervously. "I am _already_ in trouble," he whispered to the walls. "If she gets any _more_ angry with me..."

"Will you both be safe here?" Heather wondered.

"I'm coming with you," Alex reinforced. The Mason girl looked at him.

"Alex-"

"You meddled with Elle and now I'm meddling with your business " Alex argued. "I survived this hell once before, same as you did. I get that we are probably going to get split up again... Fine. But I'm not going to _wait_ here while you're carrying this alone. I came back in for a reason. If I wanted to wait in safety, I'd be back with Eileen and Henry."

Walter looked at the two of them uncertainly and then huddled his doll to his chest. Heather hesitated for a moment but then nodded and squeezed Alex's hand thankfully. She looked back to Walter. "Walter? You didn't answer. Will you be safe waiting here, or should we bring you back to the Lighthouse?"

The young man looked up at her from his tattered old rag doll, eyes bright with confusion and wonder. "You came back different," he noted ambiguously. Then he straightened a little. "I'm not safe anywhere; she can always reach me. Do you think you can really protect anyone from her? Well, then you are only going deeper, not farther away. It will be more or less like you are here."

Heather was silent a moment, contemplating how everything about Silent Hill's supernatural mysticism was organic and shapeless. How had Heather pulled the essence of Walter Sullivan back from its monstrous incarnation? Why was he now unharmed and seemingly safe from danger? In a way, she sort of knew. But an instinctive certainty told her that if she tried to give it form, if she tried to articulate it, it would disintegrate under her grasp.

Walter was reasonably safe from Silent Hill...

...Presuming Heather maintained whatever inner force that had let her rescue him in the first place.

* * *

There were three objects waiting in the little alter behind the antique store. The first was a shard of ice; the second a bloody sheet, and the third a gauntlet with a long and bloody razor. Heather eyed them with level resentment, knowing they represented her failure to save her father and her inability to bring him back from the dead.

Alex glanced at her when he realized the puzzle was foreign to him. To him it looked like the offering table was asking her to pick one of the items. After studying them for a moment, Heather stepped up, grabbed a burning candle from the side of the alter.

The world went black around them, the candle's light shrinking in to a tiny food wide radius around its flame. A gold gust of wind heralded a thousand rusty clanks and a rising ambiance of countless moving shapes and inhuman murmurs. Something leaped at them from the side; something difficult to make out in the horrible lighting, but just visible enough for Heather to put her katana through its throat. A few moments went past in dark and unpleasant claustrophobia at the tiny space their candle gave to them and the vast and unknowable sickness beyond.

Then the light began to expand once more, and in moments they could see they were standing on a rusty bridge leading downward into a massive apocalyptic factory of aching rust and tortured rumbles. All around them, bloodied metal crunched, turned, and swiveled Chains ran off to nowhere. Pipes and steel ducts sprawling out like mazes, leaking unknowable fluids and dotted with valves and flaming gratings. Above them, humanoid shapes suspended at the neck by long ropes undulated and wiggled in unnatural ways, their skin crawling and bulging in a way human skin could not.

A squeaking valve caught Heather's attention. She spun around to see a very familiar shape perched up on an unreachable alcove. Covered in grime, lithe and powerful arms coated to the elbow with coagulated blood, and as enigmatic as he had ever been, the angel Valtiel was turning a valve.

Heather's eyes widened. She rushed up to edge of the platform, leaning over the edge into an infinite and very pointy chasm. "Valtiel!" she exclaimed.

The angel did not respond to her. He did not seem to even register that she was there.

"Valtiel! _Valtiel! _Please- God- Valtiel! _VALTIEL!_"

Silence. Long and weighty silence. A horrible, unspeakable sense of dread writhed up into Heather Mason's gut. For perhaps the first time since entering Silent Hill, she felt a true, pure, deep and primal fear. Her heartbeat raced, her stomach heaved, and all strength left her knees.

She felt nothing. No connection. No other mind. No bond. She might as well have been looking at a piece of architecture. Even the bond she'd perceived with Walter Sullivan seemed suddenly to disappear.

"Heather!" Alex cried out her name and grasped her around the waist, hauling her back from the edge as all self-control left her and she nearly teetered into the abyss. When he got a good look at her face he realized she wasn't sad, angry, or anxious. She had the blank and disbelieving look of a mother who had just been informed on the death of her child. Or perhaps a schizophreniac who had just realized her child had never even existed.

When she finally had the strength of will to do anything, Heather Mason broke down into howls of despair. The angel did not so much as budge.

The Mother of God had returned. God's Scribe would need to be informed.

* * *

In the end, Alex Shepherd had picked Heather off the ground and carried her deeper into the complex. When he finally heard debris collapse behind them and seal the door back shut, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Heather choked out a broken sob. He winced and hugged her tightly against his collar, murmuring reassurances into her hair as he tried to figure out what to do next.

They had just entered the abyss, and odds are they had a long way to go before coming out again. There was no telling what exactly Silent Hill wanted Heather to do, and no doubt it would be traumatic and difficult to bare- as per the norm. He knew they couldn't go back until they were done, and that leaving her near the unresponsive Boogeyman would only worsen her mental state. But now he had the conundrum of trying to figure out how they were going to press forward. Though he didn't exactly understand it, he knew his partner was almost hysterical with grief. She wasn't going to be able to tackle anything in her current state.

Silent Hill was good at breaking people. It tore down their masks and mental constructs and forced them to stare face to face with unpleasant truths. But in the end it always demanded stronger resilience from its victims, and destroyed those who couldn't find the strength to carry on. The shadow of Alessa Gillespie, or the God, or whatever dark force directed things in that hell, was not going to wait for Heather Mason to compose herself.

Her very survival rested on whether or not he could get her back on her feet.

But what could he do? What could he say to her? Even though Walter had been right about Silent Hill's enigmatic boogieman, Heather still needed to keep fighting. And just because she'd been wrong about Valtiel, didn't mean there wasn't a personal strength and future happiness worth fighting for.

Three hallways stretched out before him, though the one on the left opened up into a great pit. Peering to the side, Alex saw it was filled with small child-sized monsters with fat sand-bag like bodies and little arms and legs that tapered off into hooked appendages. Their faces were like partially deflated sacks with black plaster burnt into the fiber where eyes and mouth should have been. They huddled in groups of three and though they looked at him with interest and made curious mewing noises, it did not appear they could climb out of the pit.

A bizarre sensation suddenly overcame him; an epiphany as countless half truths and vague insinuations wormed together into a thought that nauseated him.

Alex looked down the other two hallways but saw nothing. After a moment he stooped and carefully settled Heather on the ground. A quick look at her face showed that she was aware of her location and recognized him. He winced and grasped first her arms and then her face, drawing her forehead to his and stroking over her cheeks and neck.

"Heather," he pled, "Heather... Heather... I'm going to ask... I... I'm going to ask you a very, very strange question, okay?"

His partner sobbed and sniffled hard, wiping tears and a little snot from her face as she tried to get her emotions under control. It was a little terrifying to see how much of Heather had apparently been built on the Metatron's presence .. a moment ago she'd been so sure, so steady, and now...

"Heather..." he began, but then since he didn't know how to broach the subject he proposed it bluntly: "Heather, I think you should see if you can control Silent Hill monsters."

She choked, sputtered, hiccuped, and blinked at him in disbelief. With a half-squeaking sob, she asked, "_What?_"

Alex grimaced and gently stroked through her hair. "Walter called you a conjurer. Like himself, like Claudia, like Alessa... Someone who has power over Silent Hill."

She started shaking her head, lips parted in disbelief, but Alex pressed onward.

"Heather, you _need _to give yourself some proof that you really can do this. If you aren't going to hide from Silent Hill, then one of the things you have to face is your heritage. You are _stronger_ than you're letting yourself believe."

Heather was silent; stunned for a very long moment. When she found the strength to speak she shook her head again. "You're the one who's... who's always protesting I'm not her... You're the one who hates any talk of-"

"You are not Alessa!" Alex whispered to her fiercely. "But you aren't helpless either. Look when you first lit up that symbol I was pissed as hell at Kaufmann for asking something like this of you. Now I realize I was fighting for your right to be 'normal.' Well you don't get to _be_ normal, Heather Mason. You can do impossible things. But that means you really do stand a chance at pulling the rug out from under these bastards and collapsing their own hell on top of them. And I swear, I _swear_ to you Heather Mason, I will not love you one inch less because of that."

Heather gaped at him. Alex brushed over the skin beneath her eye and beside her nose.

"Valtiel saving Elle wasn't some fluke, Heather. I'm not going to tell you what's right or tell you for sure what we just saw. But a god of executioners revived my childhood best friend _for you_. Whatever you believed? It _worked_. So keep believing in it. Somehow, on some level, you were not wrong. She's alive because of you."

Another moment past in silence. Then Heather buried him a hug so powerful it nearly sent them teetering over the edge.


	33. Meeting Impotence

It wasn't until Alex pointed out there was a lever inside the pit that Heather Mason voluntarily reached down into her pocket and pulled out the Seal of the Metatron. They had passed several minutes together sitting at the edge of the precipice, suggesting and trying out various mental strategies for getting the monsters to move. The little things continued to mewl curiously up at them, but none moved predictably.

Drained of energy, Heather couldn't fathom going down into the Pit and dealing with hundreds of little baby-like sack monsters in order to hit that lever. Even so, the Seal of the Metatron was very heavy in her palm, and brought a painful butterfly sensation to her gut.

If Valtiel wasn't 'real,' then what could Heather feel about the months he'd spent at her side? Were they just the reflections of her own mind? Had she basically been living with a doll, an inanimate object, a mirror, or even just a splinter of her own personality? Or was there some version of the truth in which- But would failing to recognize that he was fake jeopardize her chances of making it out of Silent Hill with- Or-?

It was getting hard to keep her thoughts straight. They wanted to chase each other in an infinite loop of unanswered doubts and questions. Alex seemed to feel her misery, and he hugged her reassuringly.

Heather shuddered, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She thought about Valtiel, focused as hard as she could on the days they'd done something particularly meaningful together; on a mental image of him cutting out angel-shaped cookies. Her fingers clenched tightly around the amulet as she tried to cling to that image. Valtiel, whether he was real or simply Heather's mirror, had believed in her just as Alex now believed in her. She remembered cutting through Xipe's bonds to free him. He'd hugged her and purred for her, promising her she was not a monster...

Alex watched his partner fall into a deep and apparently slightly anguished introspective state. He was trying to decide if he should rouse her from it- shake her shoulder, kiss her temple- when suddenly he _felt_ more than observed a sudden change. When he looked down into the pit, several of the monsters closest to the lever had started wiggling and floundering about, falling over one another in their excitement. More and more of the creatures started becoming agitated.

Then suddenly the little monsters began tackling the lever with excited meowing sounds. They tackled the lever and they tackled each-other, flopping their little sack bodies higher and higher until there was an enormous mound of tiny, wiggling, meowing sack-babies piled on top of the now invisible lever. Somewhere early on in their tackling, Alex heard gears turning; but he didn't think to grab Heather and shake her until the scene had become morbidly comical.

When she'd finally blinked her eyes open, Alex gestured downward to the mound of monsters and placed a supportive hand firmly on her shoulder. Heather stared at the creatures for a long quiet moment. By the expression on her face, she was repulsed, anxious, disgusted, relieved, frightened, horrified, and resigned all in one. Alex took her chin in one hand and slowly directed her to look at him; when she met his eyes he gave her a very understanding look and kissed her forehead.

"I know," he told her. "I _know_. But it's okay. _You're_ going to be okay." He put his arms around her again as she leaned into him. "We get through this together."

_The Pyramid_, Heather thought abstractly, smothering her face into her partner's shoulder. _That day... The Pyramid obeyed me..._ Her fingers clenched and she swallowed a hard sob. _All of it. All of them. It's all because I'm Alessa._

* * *

They sat awkwardly in the entry room, drinking tea. Now and then they looked up at Elle, who was staring shocked down at the coffee table. She was wearing some of Eileen's spare clothing and had a blanket wrapped around her for comfort and support. On waking up she'd screamed Alex's name repeatedly, over and over again, for at least five minutes. When Henry and the others had run into tend to her, she had struck out at them with her knees and fists.

Eileen and Laura had tried talking to her, but it seemed that Eileen's soothing voice and Laura's rational one had no effect on the hysterical girl. In the end it had it had been James Sunderland who had managed to get Elle to stop screaming. He'd snuck away during a quick group brainstorm, entered the girl's room, knelt in front of her, and told her the story of his wife Mary. By the time the rest of the group had found them, Elle had crawled out from under the bed (where she had been hiding from them) and was listening transfixed to James Sunderland's soothing voice.

Aghast, the others had watched as James told the disturbing story of his Silent Hill journey through to the very last detail. When he finished, Elle had sat there quietly for a very long moment. Abruptly she had hugged him, and he'd led her off to breakfast. She hadn't spoken a word since.

No one was exactly sure what to do with Elle Holloway. She jumped at shadows, flinched when people touched her, and in general appeared to have been struck mute. They reasoned she was still in shock. It was James and Henry who seemed to understand her predicament the best. The two men sat on either side of her and each tried to keep an eye on her while the other couldn't.

The minutes ticked away, one by one.

Eileen sighed heavily. Douglass and Henry looked at her. "Isn't there anything we can do?" she asked in exasperation. "We've just been sitting on our hands for two days now. They could be in trouble or even dead, and we're not doing _anything_. It's driving me crazy.

Elle started breathing heavily at the mention of Alex dying. He and Henry had been able to communicate to her that Alex and another friend Heather were currently in the _Otherworld_ of Silent Hill, and that everyone was waiting anxiously for their safe return.

"These things take time," Douglass noted, but he looked equally irritable with their helplessness. "There's _gotta_ be somethin' we can do, though. There are cultists all over the city. Maybe there's some way we can help them."

"Okay," Laura drawled, "but _how_? They're like in another dimension, or whatever. They probably don't even see we're at the lighthouse."

"Some small but meaningful things we can do," Douglass hazarded, "Like rearranging symbols or putting important items in some places... That could help them."

"If we knew what to do," Henry agreed, "but we don't."

"You sent her that doll, didn't you?" Douglass protested.

"I figured she might have a run in with Walter," Henry explained, "because I'd... well I just had a feeling."

Douglass frowned, as Eileen perked up. The old man asked, "Does she have any way of communicating back to us-?" but Eileen cut him off with, "Did you have a dream?"

Henry winced. The whole of the group turned around to look at him, even Elle and James. Henry shifted uncomfortably for a moment, eyes tracing patterns on the ground. Then he nodded.

"Well- well what did you see?!" Eileen cooed worriedly, standing up and coming over to her husband. "Did you go to the Otherworld?"

"Not-" Henry sighed. "I don't even know if it was Silent Hill related or just a really realistic dream. I had it when we were in Canada. I dreamed I was here in this Lighthouse, and there were two bodies overgrown with White Claudia that probably weren't Heather and Alex. Walter was here covered in black slime, and he was standing in Alex and Heather's room, watching their empty bed. He mentioned they were both there. I'm guessing he was in the _Otherworld_ and Alex and Heather weren't yet."

"And?!" Eileen prompted.

Henry shifted uncomfortably. "He gave me a clue. I called Heather as fast as I could to tell her, and halfway through the signal got cut off when Silent Hill took them."

"That doesn't sound like a normal dream," Douglass observed. "Too coincidental. What clue did he give?"

"He said, 'Harry Mason and the Marks of Samael.' "

The room was silent for a moment as each person pondered the implications of what this meant for Heather. It was James who broke the silence: "Does that mean she's going to visit the symbols in the same order Harry did?"

Henry perked up, considering this and thinking back to the Mark's page in the Bestiary.

"The antique shop!" he and Eileen gasped in confusion. Laura couldn't help but break out laughing; married people were weird.

* * *

Deep within the endless clay and filth of _Nowhere_, a small and light-less fire burned. The smith labored over his makeshift kiln, his breath heating the space to temperatures weaker creatures could not endure. The physical appearance of his cell had changed; it was now larger and circular, providing more access to the clay he needed to build his construct. The sins of man flowed through that clay; their fears, their darkness, their spiritual refuse. The filth was the excrement, the ooze that ran from man's festering soul. From it, the Smith crafted mortal suffering.

Tongues of God's Word fluttered about him, but they were an unheated and unlighted fire. He scoffed at them in irritation, occasionally grabbing one that wandered to close and tearing it free. The Scribe twitched violently at his every 'transgression,' but the idea that she could control _him_ was simply laughable. Unleash him? Yes. Control him? Never.

The Smith was no soft and fragile angel, not subject to laws or regulations or psalms! He was demon, he was hatred incarnate. There was but one thing- ONLY one thing the Smith answered to- GOD. God and her unlimited mercy for the creatures he most hated, the creatures who had created her, the creatures who had destroyed her. She was his only master.

The Scribe had come for his help. God's faithful did not yet know the danger in their midst; had yet to detect the blasphemous creatures which walked the holy paths of Silent Hill. But The Scribe knew what they did not. The Mother of God had returned. Her blasphemy reached out like a choking cloud, tainting everything it touched. And While the Scribe could rewrite and undo the Mother's influence, her sin could not be permitted to endure.

So she had come to him, to The Smith. She was imploring him to exact justice. And, wretched manipulative creature that she was- high and mighty that she thought herself!- she had come _offering_ him the opportunity to do so.

_"I Will Lighten Your Burden And Extend Your Chain_s," she had said onto him,_ "And Lead The Hand Of Your Justice Onto Her, So That You May Punish Her."_

And of course, The Smith knew, that this 'freedom' would come with one restriction: That he not kill her. That he deliver her soul back into the hands of the human faithful, back into God's service, as opposed to blotting her from existence. He would have traded true justice away for the chance to exact any at all.

**_I Have Already Found Her, _**he had responded. _**And I Will Unmake** **Her.**_

And then he had laughed at the expression of fury and dismay on the Scribe's face- but how _dare_ she have ever presumed control over _him_? How _dare _she take his 'obedience' for granted?

_"This Shall Not Be Permitted," _she told him. He had laughed again.

_ **I Need No Permission. She Embraces Her Own Destruction. As I Have Stated, So It Shall Be.** _

* * *

Heather tried to use her abilities whenever they spotted a one of the weaker monsters from farther away. At first, some of the individuals she targeted would pause and wiggle uncertainly, but after a time they stopped responding to her at all. She had a headache and her eyes were hot and tired from the saline she'd cried earlier. Alex tried to reassure her, but Heather seemed incredibly cloudy and distant. It was worrying him.

At the next puzzle, some shred of life seemed to come back into her. The logical process of working through the different clues and symbolic objects revitalized her spirit- if only so that she could survive. Within an hour of their decent she seemed back in control, if noticeably less flippant and sarcastic. It seemed her ability to joke about Silent Hill had suffered some damage.

"It should be coming up," Heather murmured after a moment of looking up at a large door clamped shut with bloody hooks and vices, with two wriggling forms encased in either side. One appeared male, the other female; both were tied at the arms to a symbol at the top of the door, and saw-blades were churning beneath them.

"What?" Alex asked her, lifting their candle so they could see some prose written across the rusted steel. " 'In love we choose to suffer in this world to save the souls of others.' "

A corner of Heather's mouth turned up. "The end of level boss," she told him smugly.

Alex blinked and looked at her. Heather lifted a brow, daring him to deny it. He made a face. She chuckled. He sighed and lowered the candle. "Looks like we have to drop both these things into the grinders for the door to open."

"No," Heather disagreed. "Probably only one of them will drop. Probably the one without boobs."

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"They symbolize me and you, and our unwillingness to let anything happen to each other," she told him. "So of course Silent Hill is going to make us drop just _one_, so they're separated. And then we probably have to drop the 'guy' because I need to feel an ominous sense of foreboding that letting you follow me here is going to get you killed. A person is _way_ less impacted by their own death than by the death of the person they love."

Alex looked up at the puzzle, then around at the various objects and levers in the room. After a moment he looked back at Heather. "You've been living this life way too long," he told her.

"Tell me about it," she grumbled.

"After this, vacation in Tahiti."

"I'll bring my surf board," she noted, surveying the levers and then moving towards one of them. "Sorry Doppelganger Alex and Heather. I'm pretty sure neither of you are thinking creatures anyway." She grabbed the lever, pulled it, and didn't even wince as the male form suddenly fell free and dropped into the meat grinder. Gore exploded in a meter radius around the hole, bits of bone and cartilage making harsh 'ping' noises as they collided with metal.

Alex shook his head in disgusted wonder. Heather returned to his side and slipped her hand in his. "Fuck you, Silent Hill," she muttered as the clamps and hooks began to pull out from the door. "Let's keep going."

Alex nodded, and then followed her as the pushed the door open and stepped out into a circular torture arena with closed gates on every side. The room was quiet, tall, broad, and devoid of monsters. A circle of large pillars each two meters in diameter obscured the center. Heather entered suspiciously, looking around at the various instruments, tables, and machines. The aisles between the different apparatuses were wide and offered plenty of room to maneuver but the almost artistic placement of the various tools gave Heather pause.

Then she lifted her eyes and beheld the center dais of the room for the very first time. A shock flew through her and then she was pushing her way through the room, making a rapid b-line for the dais Alex blinked when he noticed her motion and then looked at where she was heading. A horrified realization spread over his face. "Oh _no,_" he muttered in dismay, dropping his pack and scrambling after her. "Heather! _Heather! _Don't! This isn't the same! You can't do for him what you did to Water! HEATHER!"

There were two rings of stakes protruding from the ground in a wide circular dais at the center of the arena. Hanging limply from the one closest to them, his arms tied over his head at the wrists, was none other than Harry Mason.

Heather couldn't or wouldn't hear him. She hurried up to the form, dropping her things on the dais before him, and then slowly inched the last few inches forward. Although she must have known deep down that she was asking for a moat load of trouble, she couldn't help herself. She reached forward with both hands, touching his head and lifting it so she could see his face. She half expected it to be a gaping hole or something.

"Dad...?"

Familiar blue eyes looked weakly up at her, then widened. "No-" he gasped. "No, honey, back up-!"

"I'm going to get you out," she promised in a low voice, the fingers of one hand scrambling for her katana hilt.

"Heather-!" Harry Mason begged.

There was a high pitched shriek and then Heather was being jerked backwards as something else slammed down into the earth where she had just been standing. The person who had grabbed her was Alex, and he was now holding her tightly about the waist and shoulders. The slammed object was an executioner's spear, or... or no, a leg. Heather's gaze shot upwards. Yes, a leg. High above them both, a sinuous gray spider-like shape was dangling from the upper shafts of the many stakes. Its body was a compositeof rotting corpses and withered skeletons. As she and Alex stared, they observed that some of the bodies woven into its composition were not yet dead. Fused into its filthy hide, the bloodied form of Judge Holloway was writhing and screaming.

"This is your fault!" she shrieked, not even looking at them. "YOUR FAULT!"

Warped into another leg, Vincent grimaced at the ceiling. "Never should have come back."

One long and spear-like leg lifted up from where it had nearly impaled Heather Mason. It scratched along the edge of a stake for a moment and then the massive creature apparently decided Heather and Alex weren't worth tis time. Instead, it turned about and scuttled down another one of the stakes. There it found the huddled form of Dahlia Gillespie. It slicked its long leg down her back, as worm-like appendages wiggled out of the bony flesh. They grabbed on to the helpless woman, fusing into her skin as she suddenly twisted and screamed. Bands of flesh, bony arms and rotting intestines wrapped around her. Within seconds she had been assimilated into the spider's body.

"Alessa!" she cried in a hoarse and desperate voice. "Please! Please, let us go!"_  
_

The two young survivors gaped in horror. Alex worked free a gun and pointed it at the monster. He fired, but it didn't so much as flinch. He fired again and again and again, but the spider seemed not to notice.

Harry Mason alone of all the survivors seemed to actually register their presence. He continued staring straight at his daughter as the gunshots echoed through the chamber and Dahlia screamed. He shook his head pleadingly. "Don't," he begged in a whisper. "Let go. Let go and it will be okay."

At the sound of his voice Heather tried to step forward, but Alex dropped his gun and clung to her with both arms. "Listen to him!" her lover pleaded.

"Let go of me," Heather commanded. "Dad. Dad!"

Harry swallowed dryly. The spider had turned curiously towards them, and he didn't dare to look at it. "Honey," he whispered, "you _know_ I'm not really here. You _know_ it."

"No," Heather gasped, "I pulled _him_ out and I can save_ you_! Please- _Please_, DAD!"

"Are you _insane?!_" Alex gasped in her ear. "This is your biggest weak point! It was the trap you had to beat just to get into this place! It's trying to tempt you and you're walking right into it!"

"I can do this!" Heather screamed, looking horrified at her lover. "You just told me I was strong! You saw what I can do- I can do this- please, please- you have to let me do this!"

The spider was crawling excitedly towards them. Alex tried to drag her backwards. Heather looked terrified back at her father. A wave of panic rushed over her and she dug her feet into the ground and swung backwards with her elbow. She hit Alex in the solar plexus, and then sprinted upwards towards the dais. The spider darted forward eagerly.

"HEATHER!"

The voice belonged neither to Alex Shepherd (who was winded) or Harry Mason. It was female. Heather skid to a halt, staring in surprise at where the voice had come from. On a stake to Harry's left was a woman dressed in white. Heather had never met Mary Shepherd-Sunderland, but she'd seen pictures of the woman. The sight of her made the young survivor-ess falter. Holloway? That was from Alex's past. Vincent? That was Heather's. But how could...

"Please," Mary begged as the spider- drawn by noise, apparently- reached down one long and gruesome leg to engulf her. "Please. James is out there. _Please." _The worms latched into her skin and she cried out, writhing back and forward as the monster hoisted her up into the air. Heather watched in horrified fascination, mouth agape, as the weight of existence rushed back in on her.

Her friends; her family. Henry, Eileen, Elle- and all the others- were waiting for her? They were _depending_ on her to keep back the darkness. If she failed, if she died, they were all going to be engulfed by Silent Hill. She was everything that stood between them and hell. Heather lowered her head when crunching noises signaled that Mary had been brutally incorporated. Her eyes met Harry Mason's.

"Dad," she pled, her voice cracking. "Please let me help you..."

"You have to wait," he explained. "Till it's done with us. Then it will be vulnerable."

"But-" she choked.

"You know I'm somewhere better, someplace safe," he whispered. "Heather. Cheryl... _I love you, sweetheart..."_

By the time Alex had managed to recover and was putting his arms back around Heather Mason's shoulders, the spider was reaching down for Harry Mason. "Look away," he suggested, but Heather didn't. She stood resolute and watched horrified as the most important person in her life was taken from her again, and her whole body was shaking violently.

Only in Silent Hill could saving someone you loved be more difficult than saving someone you hated.


	34. Exit Alex Shephard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very long. Warnings for gore and trauma. Tags relevant.

Heather staggered across the bloody ground, her boots slapping across ichor and fluids she didn't want to describe. Her shoulder ached and one of her legs was bleeding. Her katana had been thrown across the room in the scuffle. She'd spent every clip of ammunition she had. The giant spider monster- 'Impotence'- had sloughed apart into countless pieces on its destruction. Heather tried to toe her way around the leftover and broken remains of allies and enemies alike. Nothing was moving any-longer. Everything was dead.

Heat made her way over to one of the torture devices, an iron maiden, and slowly eased herself to a sitting position atop its closed lid. It was, ironically, one of the few objects in the room not coated in gore. She was still clutching a skinning knife in one hand.

There was a reason everything everything was dead. In order to kill Impotence, Heather had been forced to shoot, slice, stab, and bludgeon to death every 'living' corpse affixed to its hide. No less than thirty seconds ago, she had slit Harry Mason's throat.

The skinning knife dropped from her hand and disappeared into oozing blood. Tears and slime were coating her face. She stared numbly at her hands for a long moment, before dropping her head into them and shuddering violently.

There were a flew splashes nearby as Alex Shepherd came up beside her. He paused nearby and gazed at her a moment, not knowing how to comfort her. After a time, he came up and settled down beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She let him.

They sat in silence for a very long moment, with Heather grieving soundlessly and Alex rubbing sympathetically over her back. Then suddenly there was a shout, followed by a loud and echoing clanking noise. Alex looked around in surprised as he realized the twenty or so gates bordering the room were all opening simultaneously. He watched them unfeeling for several seconds before he heard the splashing of boots on gore.

Then suddenly _people_ were pouring into the room. They were wearing full gas mask ensembles with padded quasi-military cameo and fireman's axes. Alex stiffened and then stumbled to his feet. He reached for his gun, then swore when he remembered it was out of ammo. There was a cleaver nearby and he grabbed it.

Behind the 'soldiers,' a familiar shape tiptoed gracefully out into the arena. Edwin looked curiously around at the gore and then dropped a respectful but also triumphant gaze upon the shattered Impotence. He smiled knowingly and then turned his gaze to Alex and Heather. Behind him, Xipe floated gingerly into the space behind him. Her scrolls twined gently through the air, reaching out to blanket the walls and slither across the bloody floor.

"Bind them and ensure they survive," Edwin instructed the men. "Above all else, do not harm the Mother of God."

"Heather!" Alex gasped.

* * *

It was difficult to cram so many people into the Green Lion Antique shop; and worse yet when three adult men were demanding the cultist shop owner let them see the altar in the back of the shop. It certainly wasn't the best way to keep their heads low and their cover raise, Laura reasoned. But, then again, she wasn't exactly dealing with the most reasonable group of people. She sighed, watching as Douglass became angrier and angrier, and Henry and James both remained soft-spoken and almost monotone. Eileen and Elle were looking quietly around the shop for clues. Laura rubbed the bridge of her nose.

A bell tinkled as the shop door opened, and Laura glanced towards it to see a very ragged but surprisingly handsome young man. He had wild curly blonde hair that obviously hadn't been washed in weeks, and his eyes were mischievous. He was wearing an overlarge blue coat and stood a good foot taller than Laura. If he'd looked a day over eighteen, perhaps she would have been smitten. A little. _Maybe_. Ah hell, who was she kidding? Laura was a terribly bossy flirt with a cold and pragmatic air that only surfaced when she needed to dump a clingy guy. This individual was probably a crazy street bum (judging by the doll he was holding), but that didn't mean she couldn't be charming. He had a nice enough face._  
_

"Sorry, I think my 'family' has the shop keeper all tied up," she apologized with an embarrassed smile. "Did you need something? Maybe I can elbow my way in there."

"Oh no," the man said in a soft voice, eyes lighting up in surprise. "That's fine. I can wait."

"Really? Cause it looks like they're gonna be awhile." She smiled. "What's your name?"

"Walter," the man answered shyly, clearly both discomforted but delighted by the attention. He was _definitely _a crazy street hobo, Laura thought, but also very sweet. She'd try and get the Angry-Douglass-Pitbull to heel for a few minutes so this kid could talk to the storekeeper.

"Well Walter, hold on just a moment. I'll see if I can divert the angry mob's attention." She winked and gave a salute, and then waltzed up to where all three men were demanding access. "Hey Newbs!" she shouted loudly.

All four individuals jumped and blinked surprised at Laura Sunderland. They were as perplexed by her new-fangled technology as they were startled by her shout. She gave them a look to underscore their immaturity for a second or two and then stood straight and jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

"Shop's gotta customer," she said.

All four men looked. Henry jerked violently backwards and his face went as white as a ghost's. "Eileen!" he shouted. The woman in question jumped up from where she'd been considering the purchase of two adorable kissing snowman ice globes.

"Honey?" she asked. Then her eyes settled on the man in the blue coat and her face also lost all of its coloration.

It took approximately six seconds for three men and one woman to draw out various representatives from the semi-automatic projectile weapon family and point them all squarely at Walter Sullivan's head. Elle looked terrified. The antique shop owner dived under his counter top Laura raised her brows in disbelief. Had four people seriously just pulled guns out in the middle of an antique shop? What the hell? This wasn't some alternate reality! They could get hauled off to jail for this! "Erm...?"

"Laura!" her father pleaded. "Get away from him!"

Baffled, Laura turned around to see that the young man had walked up silently behind her and he was looking around at his would-be assailants with a curious smile. After a moment he looked back down at Laura.

"Actually, I was looking for all of you," he told her.

Laura blinked uncomprehendingly at him. Walter tilted his side to the head curiously. A light bulb almost seemed to appear above her head. She looked from Henry, to the Doll, to Walter. "Oh!" she said suddenly. She looked at the doll and then at the man's face one more time. "You... you don't _look_ much like an undead serial murderer..."

Walter considered that. "I suppose at this age, I wasn't yet," he decided, smearing disobedient blonde hair out of his face. "Who are you? I don't know you yet."

"I'm, er, I'm Laura. Laura Sunderland. I'm James's daughter."

"It's nice to meet you," Walter said, and extended a hand shyly to shake. Laura took it hesitantly but warmly. The rest of the shop looked on with horror. After a moment, Walter looked up however, and his eyes had an uncertain edge to them as he looked at Henry. "Sister is in trouble."

* * *

"Are you awake?"

The voice was unfamiliar as Heather Mason slowly came to. She realized she had been placed in a chair and a gentle hand was on her shoulder. She tried to open her eyes, but the light was painful at first and she reasoned she must have been given a mild concussion. Why did everything hurt? How had she been injured?

_Sister...?_

Walter Sullivan. Silent Hill. Impotence. Harry Mason. The ambush. Heather's eyes flew open. She was surrounded by men with axes and hidden faces. Standing at her side, Edwin was smiling benevolently down at her. "Ah, you wake, Blessed Mother. Good. You're just in time."

"_You_," Heather gasped, trying to lunge at him. Something held her back. She looked around to find that her arms were bound in front of her and her shoulders and legs had been tied to the chair she was in. A scowl worked its way over her face and she lifted haughty eyes up to glare at the cultist.

"Have we met previously?" Edwin wondered aloud. "I know _your_ face of course but... Ah. Perhaps you were at Elle Holloway's execution? We did not see you there..."

"You _bastard_," Heather snarled, "let me go and I'll demonstrate exactly what I know about you!"

Edwin shook his head. "So violent. But your anger is misdirected, child. Today we will teach you to surrender to it. Today, we will give your soul back to God."

"Fuck you," Heather called his bluff. "You can kill me, but you will _never_ make me believe in your bullshit!"

Edwin regarded her sadly. "I was hoping you and I would be able to talk first... about your mother... about Claudia..."

"Dahlia was not my mother!" Heather shouted.

"Yet you knew whom I was speaking about," he noted gently. "I was hoping we could have a heart to heart; That the word itself might be enough to clear your errant mind of its blasphemes and reveal to you the glory you've forsaken."

"And I'm not Alessa!"

He sighed. "I see now that is not possible. I apologize, child, but if you have sealed your mind to the truth, then we must do this after the fashion of your mother and closest friend. I swear to you; this day or the next you will again know God's love."

She glared needles at him as he released her and stood straight. Ahead of her, Heather realized, was a window peering in to a clean room of medical devices. there was a heart monitor, an operating table, and bright overhead lights. More worrisome was the lack of bandages or antiseptic visible; instead, Heather saw nothing but various types of knives. The operating bed, she realized, was equipped with heavy leather restraints. At first, Heather thought perhaps they were about to transfer her into that room. Then she realized the glass meant she was about to watch an operating on another individual.

Edwin nodded to someone and then the doors of the operating room flew open. Several cultists wheeled into a stretcher, atop of which lay the prone form of Alex Shepherd. Heather stiffened in alarm, and then looked to Edwin as the cultists transferred the unconscious soldier from the stretcher to the operating bed. They latched his legs, arms, feet, hands, torso, and neck into place.

"No," she said in a low voice as one of the doctors filled a syringe with carefully measured fluid. Another linked up the heart monitor, which began measuring a steady heartbeat.

"This does not need to be the way," Edwin explained. "At any time you may open your heart onto me and recite the words of devotion to God. I will accept your penance in her name, and lead you back onto the righteous path."

"You let him go you sadistic son of a bitch," Heather gasped.

"I cannot. Not as long as you refuse God's love."

"Let him GO!" she ordered, looking to face the glass once more. They had injected Alex with the fluid, and he was clearly coming awake. After a moment he blinked back at her through the glass, mouthing her name.

"Alex..." she whispered.

He looked around him, at the cultists with their white aprons and face masks. Several individuals were holding his legs and arms to ensure he did not disrupt the 'surgeons.' Then a man approached him with a long mortician's knife. The Shepherd boy's eyes widened as he tried to scoot away or break free. The cultists held him firm. He swore and writhed and then stared in morbid helplessness as the man drew closer.

"Heather," he said suddenly, turning his gaze to her. The expression on his face was almost exactly that of Harry Mason's. "Fuck. Heather," he begged, "look away."

"Alex!" she gasped, and then both individuals screamed out in unison when the first knife pressed into his flesh. Then she stared horrified when the assailant did not simply press a single cut, but began to move the blade quickly and professionally through the skin. Alex swore, kicked, and thrashed, crying out in shocked agony whenever he got a breath. He swore furiously at the cultists, daring them to release him. Heather gasped and shuddered inarticulately before whipping her head around to look at Edwin. "Let him go!" she screamed. "Stop it, let him go! I'll do whatever you want!"

Edwin looked at her doubtfully. "Will you relinquish all forces of sin and evil, give yourself entirely to God, and reclaim your righteous place as the Holy Mother?"

Heather hesitated. What was he asking? Then a scream from her lover brought her to her speak. "Yes! Yes, I'll do anything!" she cried.

Edwin frowned, not certain if he ought to believe her. "Are you _sure_?" he asked. "There will be no turning back. You must recite the words of scripture."

"Any-any-"

"Heather!" Alex screamed. She looked to him, and saw that his face was turned in her direction. Then she let out a scream of disbelief. They were butchering his legs. They were _dicing_ him like meat, cutting him up into cubes and strips, tearing meat away from bones, tying tourniquets about limbs to prolong his survival. An IV was feeding fresh blood into his arms. The sheer horror of what she was witnessing could barely sink in to her. This had to be a nightmare. This _couldn't_ be real. This was like a horrifically unpleasant gore fest running at midnight on Halloween.

"Alex," she wailed helplessly, jerking against her bonds. Tears were blossoming in her eyes.

"Heather." His chest heaved and he looked ready to vomit at so much pain. "Heather, don't do it! They'll just burn you like they did her, and they'll kill me anyway! I'm sorry- I- please- _Live_," he begged her. "Do what you need to and _live!_"

"They're going to kill you!" she screamed at him. "You fucking asshole you can't ask me to live if you don't plan on doing likewise!" She looked at Edwin, "Let him GO!"

"Heather!" Alex gasped, his voice strangled, tears forming in his own eyes. "F... fuck...f.. _Heather_!" She looked back at him. Edwin shook his head and then made a gesture to one of the nurses. "Heather, please, p-please, d-don't let them have you," Alex managed, shaking with pain. "I don't b-blame you, I- Heather don't let them win! Don't let them have you, don't let them bring that _thing_ into the w-world!"

"Alex! Edwin- Let him go! I-'ll do what you-"

"R-remember why you're here!" her lover begged her. "Fuck- _FUCK- Heather-!"_ Heather shook her head in terrified disbelief. He remembered the two bodies at the doorway to Impotence's lair. If he didn't do something, Heather would sacrifice _anything_ to save him, including herself. He had to put her over the edge before Edwin could tempt her back from it, and he knew exactly what to say.

"God- r-remember what they did to Harry M-mason-! Remember why!"

A 'nurse' leaned over Alex Shepherd with a gag in hand. His eyes widened and he tried with everything in him to keep his mouth away from her as cultists struggled to contain him.

"Alex! ALEX!"

"Heather!" he gasped, then cried out as they slammed his head hard into the table. Hetero-chromatic eyes gazed agonized into hers. "I love you. I'm s-so sorry. I'm _so s-sorry_. _L-live._ I-I l-lov-"

_"ALEX!"_

Edwin leaned near her. "You can end this," he promised. "We would ourselves attempt to teach Mr. Shepherd the way to the light, and if he refused we would give him a quick and painless end in honor of you. You need only promise yourself to the-

"_ALEX!_" Heather screamed hysterically as she watched her lover's eyes roll up and tears slip down his cheeks. He turned his gaze away from her and closed his eyes. Perhaps he fell into a meditative state to block out the pain. Heather continued to scream for him. The cultists did not stop

After fifteen minutes she could no longer articulate words and had dissolved into panicked, hysterical shrieking. Around thirty minutes in, a clearly still-conscious Alex Shepherd moved for the first time in what seemed like hears. He lifted a grossly damaged arm, slick with his own blood from finder to shoulder. It shook and trembled. For four seconds Heather stopped screaming. She coughed at the hoarseness of her throat, sniffled, moaned in terror and disbelief. Hetero-chromatic eyes opened slowly and looked straight into her face. He pressed one finger up against the glass, and slowly traced a bloody heart upon the surface. He had held her gaze for only a moment longer, and then he'd fallen limp.

An hour passed before the monitor flat-lined, and by that point her lover was no longer recognizable.

When it was over, she screamed and screamed and screamed, until her hoarse and ragged voice was breaking on her and her body and mind could take no more. She sat weaving back and forward in her chair, face awash with tears, hair disheveled from her thrashing.

The cultists around her had begun complaining of severe headaches, so Edwin had sent them out. He himself was protected by his glorious Xipe. He watched Heather's face sadly for the entire duration, even long after he knew she would not and could not submit voluntarily. When it was done he gently ran a hand through her hair and apologized to her. Alex Shepherd's corpse was rolled away, and the lights in the operating theatre were turned off. Edwin turned away.

"I will come fetch you in the morning," he told her, "and your metamorphosis will be completed." An attendant outside the doors then politely informed him that the church members were growing wary of all the demons gathering outside the building. Edwin reassured them. They were being drawn by the Mother's blasphemies, but Xipe was able to turn them away. There was no danger.

Heather didn't hear him. her eyes roved pointlessly over the walls and ceiling. She wiggled back and forward in her seat, maximizing the range of motion her restraints would allow. Her lips were parted and trembling.

* * *

Hours passed in this way.

A midnight was reached, and a dawn approached.

Alex Shepherd was dead.

Heather's mind was gone.

In _Nowhere_, among the clay and filth, a raven-haired girl slowly rose up from the slime. She wore a resigned and bitter smile, and was dressed in a blue school-girl's uniform. When the sun began to rise, it would happen. When the sun began to rise, they would make their last mistake. The raven-haired girl felt the heat emanating from deep within the bowels of _Nowhere's_ hell. She walked towards it.

Heather's rocking stopped being so vigorous, and her eyes started to settle on details. Something came back to her in the early morning hours... slowly, bit by bit... until she could hear a soft voice murmuring through the fog.

Somewhere half a reality a way, a group of people who loved her was clustered around a small Mark of Samael, their hands stretched forward to touch the symbol. they looked up at their 'guide' with suspicion and distrust, but they were there for her sake, for her life, to save her.

_Sister...?_

Heather could not even form a coherent thought in response. She could neither asked for help nor accuse him of betrayal.

_You should have run, sister,_ the voice mourned.

_Alex... Valtiel..._ her mind whimpered back.

_Oh Sister... To Alessa, the executioner was no savior, friend, or ally. He is a duality; a god of life and death... in chaos he is demon, in law he is angel... He is service and punishment; sin and faith..._

Heather listened, though she could not agree, disagree, or argue. Her mind felt like it was dying, like it would never be able to think properly again. Across the caverns of _Nowhere_, the raven-child, the Witch Queen, floated quietly. She had found a new kiln emanating a dying heat, and knew the enslaved demigod was near.

Walter explained,_ Alessa petitioned the demon... a part that hates all mankind for its sin and for God's death... A part which prefers justice to renewal... Alessa was not using the Marks of Samael to save herself. She was using them to release him. She was performing a ritual of annihilation. She called on him to obliterate herself and Silent Hill from existence. She called on him to unmake her and everything else in Silent Hill._

"There you are," Alessa noted smugly, as Edwin and his followers began their walk towards Heather Mason's room. In the depths of the endless slime, a monster _roared_. Hatred flamed around him, heating the air to an unbearable degree. His red helmet barreled forward and slammed into rusted bars. His chains bit and tore at his flesh, holding him back from his desired prey.

_ **YOU.** _

Alessa laughed. Heather slowly lifted her head.

_She still lives. In the fabric of Silent Hill, in the corners of your mind..._ Walter Sullivan reminded her. _I wonder whether sister-mother or Xipe will win? I suppose Alessa is too faded. I think when they fight for you, she'll lose... Xipe will win, and Mother will return, or... perhaps... Perhaps you will find the strength to fight. Perhaps you will remember that 'faith' in yourself you spoke of. Perhaps you will submit to the Witch Queen, embody her, become her, and free Samael._

The door slammed open. Edwin was giving orders Heather could barely hear. Then men were grabbing her shoulders and untying her from the chair. She slumped in their hold until letting them drag her legs became harder than simply walking. Her cerebellum took care of her motor functions. It lifted one foot, set it down, and then lifted the other. She followed them obediently down the corridors of a vast and winding church. Ahead of her, she felt a great heat.

_Sister. They are going to burn you. They are going to bring back God. They are going to undo your family._

Heather blinked hazily. _Never,_ she remembered. A pang went through her as a hysterical bit of feeling shot through her stomach. _Never_, she grimaced. Memories were coming back. She recalled Harry Mason's eyes.

_Could you stop them?_ he asked her. Could you_ end everything once and for all? Do you have the strength?_

Alessa smiled. "It's time," she told the executioner, who roared and thrashed violently in his restraints. "Are you ready to be turned loose?"

_**YOU ARE NO GOD!** _he roared at her. It was _she_ that he hated most. She embodied the complete and finalized sin of man. She was filth incarnate, the greatest and most disgusting of refuse. It was she who claimed power where none was deserved, she who perverted the will, word, and paradise of God. It was her voice that echoed through the halls of Silent Hill. But worse by far was _this_, was this presumption, this attitude, that SHE was the one in control. _**YOU ARE THE SCUM OF EXISTENCE.**_

He would unmake her, as she wished. He would unmake the faithful, if she could open the door wide enough. He would do both of these things, even knowing that she wanted them, because it was also what _he _wanted. It was not her craving for self destruction that so filled him with hate. It was the fact that she saw him as a tool, a means to an end, a pawn. Her ability to predict him and her willingness to accept the consequences gave her the illusion of control. Her presumption- that she could control him when he could only be controlled by god- filled him with a rage unlike anything else he had ever known. _**YOU ARE NOT GOD! **__**I WILL UNMAKE YOU. YOU WILL BE AS DUST.**_

"Good," Alessa told him. He screamed in frustrated anger. His agonized hatred would not be satiated till she was destroyed.

Heather closed her eyes tightly and whimpered. She was remembering Alex Shepherd's face. She was remembering the bloody heart he'd drawn on the glass window. He'd been pleading with her, pleading for her to live, pleading for her to win and-

They cut him, her mind informed her. They cut your lover apart. They took him apart, piece by piece, right in front of you. He'd dead, Heather. Alex Shepherd is dead, and you watched every minute of it. For an hour of your life, you watched Alex Shepherd die. He died for you. He came here to help you and you failed him. He died _for you_ and now you are going to die as well. And he didn't just die. He was _tortured_ to death. You watched as your soulmate, your lover, your husband-to-be, was tortured to death not two meters in front of you, and you could not and did not save him._  
_

Sister? Walter asked her._ Can you sacrifice not only your life but your very identity to save your friend and unmake Silent Hill? I do not think so. And they do not want you to die... So I think I will know Mother again soon._

Heather shuddered, tears streaming down her face. She made small sounds of distress, whimpering and sniffling and hiccuping. Edwin led her out to a great platform. Although the temple was cut off from the sky (for what use would it have done them under such a heavy fog?) there was a massive crystalline sundial placed in the center of the platform. A shadow on it seemed to move of it's own accord. It was several minutes until dawn. The platform was suspended over a great empty space, and on every side of them, rows of cultists had gathered to watch on a spiraling balcony. Edwin was speaking, though Heather could barely hear his words. She was looking out at hundreds of faces, hundreds of people, who had been complicit in Alex Shepherd and Harry Mason's deaths, and who were now assembled to watch her die.

Valtiel was gone. There was no one and nothing to save her. The men prodded her forward and she smelled the giant fire churning far beneath the platform long before she saw it. Above her, a giant metal 'vehicle' was being lowered down to the platform by enormous black chains. Men in the executioner's garb were assisting its downward journey. Only this time the executioners were not wearing red hoods, but instead red gloves. They had adorned their shoulders with a specific seal.

_Valtiel..._

Edwin was talking about a 'crucible,' which must have been the thing they were lowering,

_They are going to burn you, sister! _and though Walter clearly wanted to see his Mother again and was excited at the thought, a note of near-panic had entered his voice. Strangely enough it seemed some part of him could not reconcile the tortured death of 'sister,' just as part of him had never been able to forgive the death of the twins. Her mind was recycling images of Alex Shepherd's death. It reminded her over and over again how she had done nothing. Simultaneously it was remembering a nonexistent life with Valtiel. It also knew that several of her friends were somewhere nearby- she was strangely aware of James most of all. Somewhere in _Nowhere_, Alessa was ready.

When the men had pushed her out into the foremost point of the platform, Heather _knew_. A sudden awareness fell over her, and all panicked agony flew back from her mind for one crystal clear instant. Overlaid across the platform, etched into the balconies, flowing down the walls, engraved into the lines of the crucible itself- though there was no singular circular construct to contain it, the overlapping components of the executioner stage, added together, completely covered every inch of necessary space. Viewed from above, Heather Mason was standing in the very center of a gargantuan Seal of the Metatron.

The cultists had just made a mistake. They had elected to execute her over her greatest- in fact, her _only_\- symbol of power.

Her eyes flew open wide.

_Heather, Live!_ a dead man and a circle of desperate friends both begged.

In the depths of N_owhere_, Alessa Gillespie smiled. "It's time," She told the executioner, and then slowly reached a hand towards the metal of his cage. He screamed in unearthly rage. His prey was almost within his grasp. A second. A moment more. The Seal of the Metatron began to glow- softly at first, so that none were able to notice it- but then stronger and stronger until it was clear the entire symbol had turned a vibrant orange. Edwin did not falter. This was a sign of God's blessing.

Alessa suddenly contorted. Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped in surprise The Executioner roared when he realized that he was losing his only chance at freedom. The raven-haired girl jerked backwards, then burst asunder into a thousand black fragments. He raged, and screamed, and hammered against his cage. He knew The Scribe would let him out, but it would not be the same. He would not be permitted to unmake her. He would not be permitted to destroy her_ or_ her tormentors. He-

Something else stood in Alessa's place. The Blonde looked down at him quietly. There was no smug expression on her face, no cocksure hatred written in her smile, but The Smith nevertheless recognized his prey. No amount of shape shifting could confuse him, for he had no eyes to see with. He could smell the same old soul, and he knew the object of his most intense hatred had returned.

The Blonde studied him for a moment. For just a few seconds it seemed he was not inclined to roar. The sudden denial and then return of his prey had given him a moment's satisfaction. He knew that he was going to be released now, and to the fullest extent possible, and his anticipation of the coming justice had briefly blotted out his rage. His fingers clutched tightly at his rusted bars, and he pressed against them as much as his restrictive chains would allow.

The great red helmet ground firmly into the metal. He was enormous in weight and height, and even hunched over on his knees with his helmet bowed he was in fact much taller than she. He was also incredibly hot; burning with a fire ten times as intense as the one beneath Heather Mason's feet. Whenever he released a breath, great cloud of acrid smoke billowed out from beneath his helmet. He was as a great and powerful furnace; Smith and Smithy both.

_**You Are Mine, Sinful Creature, **_he told her. _**You Will Be Unmade This Day.**_

The Blonde Spirit considered this. Then she moved slowly up to the door of the cage, and ran her fingers over the lock. It dissolved beneath her mortal fingertips, though not from self-hatred as was usual. The Smith squirmed and writhed with furious excitement. He released the bars and turned his attention towards the door. She pushed it inward.

Around Heather Mason, the air darkened and the Seal of the Metatron grew brighter and brighter. Something of terrifying power was happening in that place. Xipe, who had just arrived and floated up behind Edwin, was looking around uncertainly. After a moment, her scrolls few out to feel along the glowing symbol.

In the metaphor of _Nowhere, t_ongues of lightless flame slithered into the open cage, winding around the bars and noticing with alarm the opened door. Quickly they moved to reinforce his chains. They seemed not to notice The Blonde, and The Smith scarcely noticed them. He gave a low, deep laugh, shrugging aside the bonds with some small effort as he clambered towards the door. The space reconfigured, cell bars wrapping out and behind her. He could feel the pull gravitating her towards her own self-destruction and it filled him with delicious righteousness. He strained against his chains, at the meager space separating him from her. Soon. A moment more. The way was almost open to him.

The Blonde did not wait until he had gathered the strength to cross the gap himself. She walked directly up to him, stepping into his reach. A long and sebaceous black tongue rocketed out from the darkness beneath his helm, wrapping tightly around her throat and shoulder. She could not escape if she wanted to, but he permitted her to walk the last few steps forward rather than drag her. She did not disappoint.

The Blonde Spirit walked directly up to The Smith, till she was standing almost beneath the massive helmet. She knelt, knowing that his hands were bound in such a way that made them difficult to lift. The tongue wrapped tightly around her, and fingertips clenched tightly into her legs. He was going to rip her apart, and every moment of doing so would be ecstasy.

Something was _wrong_.

He felt it mostly along the length of his tongue where it was clenched tightly around her neck and shoulder. Then he realized she was touching his massive chains, bonds that no sane individual would question breaking and which no mere mortal had any power over. They were the chains of God's infinite Mercy; and it was rare that they were even _loosened _that he might enjoy some primitive freedom.

His fingers clenched at her, kneading the metaphorical approximate of soft mortal flesh, feeling the delicacy of the human spirit with all its diseased illness and impurity. His tongue twitched and wriggled. A sense of baffled confusion rushed over him.

**_You Are Warm, _**the confused deity noted. This would not have been significant in the mortal realm, but in _nowhere_ there was nothing that gave off heat. Life did not produce heat; heat produced life. There was no true flesh in _nowhere_, no heartbeat or rushing of blood. And mortal souls did not give off warmth. The only creature of heat was The Smith himself; and even then he did not truly feel his own warmth.

The Blonde lifted her head and looked up at Xuchibara in all his ugly glory. Collapsed in a pit of endless sin, chained by the 'love' of the Goddess who had created him, The Smith was a masterful engineer of life engulfed by a maddening appetite for execution. The demigods writhing black tongue felt uncertainly around her neck and then slicked upward through her hair. Scrolls were wrapping around his helm and chains, taking advantage of his momentary distraction and ensuring that he would not be able to manifest in the temple.

Slowly, the Blonde lifted one of her hands and placed the palm flat against the gigantic red helm. She felt fury, disgust, violence, frustration, but beneath e it all a hollow and uncanny truth: Starvation. Starvation for the light of a long-extinguished Sun. The god went stiff at her touch.

Heather clenched her teeth, sobs wracking through her body. The images had returned in full force. She could imagine Valtiel above her even now, helping to turn the gears that were lowering the crucible down in front of her. She remembered him making cookies. She remember him being stolen from her arms. _Have faith, _he had told her.

_Live, _another lost friend had so recently begged her.

A broken-hearted wail erupted through her chest, because 'live' was exactly what she could not not seem to do. She screamed her lover's name, because she had not been able to save him, and she needed him, and she loved him, and he was _dead._

"Save me," the Blonde Spirit pleaded, the most sacrilegious perversion she had ever uttered; to ask for allegiance where there was not even pity; to beg salvation from punishment himself. Then her fingertips left his helmet and she grabbed the chains encircling his massive left arm and tore them asunder.

The Seal of the Metatron went black. There was a flurry, a whirlwind, as a storm of rusted metal fragments exploded downward into the temple. It tore through the ceiling and dove downwards towards the Seal of the Metatron, causing rot and rusting slime to blossom down the white marble walls of the church. Xipe loosed a startled wail as the fragments slammed down into the apex of the Seal's internal pyramid, and then whirled upwards into the seven-foot-tall shape of a monster.

Dazed and broken, Heather heard the screams long before she registered what had just happened. She noticed that the men chaperoning her had suddenly gone missing. In her dizziness she nearly stumbled off the side of the platform. She turned around slowly, carefully. Part of her mind seemed to recall that it must not, _must not_ die. Even once she had done a complete one hundred and eighty, it took a long moment for her to register what she was seeing. Standing in the center of the cultists, roaring and swinging its blade in wide arc, a Red Pyramid was wreaking havoc. Blood was splattered over everything. In fact, as her mind came to, Heather realized she was coated in the stuff. The next thing she became aware of was the metallic patter of gunshots as they ricocheted off the giant helm or punctured the monster's jaundiced flesh.

It took a few minutes more for Heather to recall the pit of baby sack-demons that she and Alex had practiced on just one day earlier. She looked at the smoking Seal of the Metatron splayed out all around her, and realized she had just summoned this Red Pyramid straight into the underground church. Because deep down, she really _was_ Alessa Gillespie.

The day became too much for her to bare. She stumbled dizzily backwards towards the platform edge. A massive helmet swiveled towards her as she fainted dead away.

* * *

"What just happened?" Laura gasped, staring down at the little Seal of the Metatron, which was now smoking upon the Antique Shop altar.

Walter Sullivan had stumbled backwards from it, a spooked expression on his face. Henry grimaced and looked in Walter's direction as Douglass waved away the smoke.

"Walter..." Henry asked, "is Heather...?"

Sullivan didn't respond, still staring at the symbol, but James made a strangled choking noise. Laura looked to her father and realized the man looked equally spooked. His shoulders were shaking violently, his eyes were wide, and he had a hand over his mouth as if he was trying to keep from vomiting.

"What happened?" Laura begged. "Dad? Henry?" The former didn't respond. The latter shook his head because he didn't know anything.

James took a shuddering breath and then covered the whole of his face. "Heather's alive," he choked out. "I saw it." Henry jumped and looked to him.

"You're sure?" he begged for acknowledgement.

James nodded, trying to shake the chaotic images he'd seen pouring from Heather Mason's mind. "But Alex _isn't_." Then a surging headache flooded through James Sunderland's skull. He saw his surroundings flickering with rust and metal. Alarmed at the way James suddenly reeled, Henry grabbed his arm. For James, the surrounding world settled, and the traces of rust vanished. His whole body shook violently.

Laura stared at them a moment, as Elle went stiff as a board and Eileen and Douglass both stood to attention. The young miss Sunderland tried to feel anything at all about the knowledge that someone she had never met was now dead. After a long moment, she turned and looked back to the frightened Walter. He noticed her gaze and peered up at her in confusion.

"How?" he asked her fearfully.

"How... how what...?" Laura asked him.

Walter shook his head, and then suddenly vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.


	35. Unexpected Guest

The church doors were twenty feet tall, four feed in breadth, and three and a half inches thick. They were made of wrought iron from the colonial era, and inlaid with countless symbols of protection and devotion. They were so impressive, so massive, so weighty that they could not have existed in the material world without calling attention to themselves. Each stood as an impenetrable barrier. Yet as _he_ approached them, the two doors trembled, moaned, and then burst open before him. Their weight shattered the fragile white marble that encased the church's outer walls, exposing the heavy diorite and granite that lay beneath.

He stepped through them, indifferent to their broken promise of safety, uncaring of the spells, wards, and sacrifices that should have blocked his way. They slammed shut behind him, locking in the screams and moans of the dying, the shouts, the hail of bullets. Outside, the hellish red glow of night, the endless pull of chains, and the writhing cacophony of screams and murmurs still permeated the air. But on the eastern horizon, blue light had begun to illuminate the fog. The night was dying down; dawn was coming.

He continued to walk. A large number of Otherworld denizens had gathered outside the church, but they made a wide berth around him. Even the smell of his_ blood_ frightened them. At first some sniffed at his bloody footprints and considered watching or following him, as they were excited by the presence of a living Man-Child caught out past dusk. The terror of his presence proved too much for them. They scattered in droves and it was not long before he was walking alone.

It did not matter that he was injured. As the blue light bloomed greater through the fog, there was suddenly a great snap. His right shin bone had given out. The muscle and skin sagged and bulged around the injury, where some of the hundreds of bullet holes had torn open his flesh and damaged muscle and bone. His breathing was ragged, his lungs torn and his rib cage embedded with lead slugs. He had left a trail of blood- his and others'- behind him.

Pain was familiar to him through the weight of his helm, and his wounds hardly bothered him. After a few more broken steps, the Great Knife slipped from the fingers of his off hand. Its full weight landed on the ground with a low and torturous thud. He neither noticed nor cared for its absence. Instead he wrapped his free arm around his much more precious cargo, and pressed onward.

* * *

"Heather!" Lisa called, raising her flashlight high and peering miserably through the heavy fog. "Alex!"

Michael Kaufmann grimaced at the shrill sound of her voice, and prayed that Silent Hill's monsters would let them be. Neither Heather nor Alex had returned to the lighthouse that night, and Michael feared the worst. He and Lisa had headed out at the break of dawn to search for the missing youngsters, armed with little more than a billy club and an extra pistol the Mason girl had left behind. If Heather was dead, existence was pointless. They _had_ to find her.

"This is hopeless," Lisa exclaimed. "They could be anywhere!" She shuddered. "We let them go out with that _murderer_..."

Kaufmann did not believe Walter Sullivan would have intentionally killed Heather Mason. There was something unspoken between the two individuals, some strange form of connection he didn't feel Sullivan would voluntarily destroy. But perhaps his instincts were wrong.

"Michael, what if they're dead...?"

"We have to keep looking," he told her. The sound of two heavy footsteps suddenly rooted him in place. Alerted by some primal instinct, Lisa and Michael both fell silent. They looked in the direction of the oncoming sound like deer trapped in a motorist's headlights. The footsteps came closer, and closer, until neither individual could deny what form of creature they belonged to.

"_Michael_," Lisa moaned as the crest of the massive helm came into view. She grabbed weakly at his arm, trying to jerk him out of his stupor. They needed to run. _Fast_. Judgement was coming. But Michael Kaufmann did not respond to her. Instead he frowned, staring at the monster as it made its way slowly out of the fog. He could hear its heavy wheezing, and noticed its awkward gait. Furthermore, it did not appear to be holding either of its signature weapons...

"Lisa," he mumbled suddenly, "look at what it's carrying."

The Red Pyramid stepped out of the fog before them. Its skin was slicked black with both its own blood and that of others. Its massive helmet hung protectively low from its inhumanely broad shoulders, shielding the delicate burden it carried. Standing chest, head, and shoulders higher than Michael Kaufmann and Lisa both, the intimidating monster must have weighed the equivalent of a horse.

Nestled securely in both those monstrous arms with her cheek pillowed against one should was none other than Heather Mason. She was as bloody and disgusting as the thing that carried her and it was impossible to determine if she was injured.

"Oh my god," Lisa whimpered. "_Oh my god_..."

Kaufmann held very still as the mighty creature approached him. It walked close enough that he could see the black underside of the massive red helmet, and there it paused, heavy breathing rasping deep within its chest. The helmet tilted subtly, and he knew without a doubt the Pyramid was staring directly at him. A moment passed in horrified silence. Then the Thing leaned over and held its cargo out to him. Michael was paralyzed for a moment before he managed to lift his arms and accept the limp form of Heather Mason. Though he shuddered at the touch of the great demon's skin, his concern for Heather's well-being quickly overwhelmed everything else. He quickly hiked her up higher in his arms and pressed his cheek to her bloodstained chest.

There was a pulse.

He groaned in relief, turning about to look at Lisa Garland. "She's alive," he told the nurse, his voice catching slightly because part of him had never believed they would find her. Lisa seemed equally shocked. She reached forward to touch the girl's bloody hair, and then a fresh splatter of hot tears wet her cheeks.

"We've got to get back," she observed shakily. "Will it... will it let us go?"

Kaufmann looked back at the towering monster and then shook his head unknowingly. Lisa gestured quietly for him to follow and the duo quickly hurried off into the fog. After a few steps, they heard the ominous thunder of the Pyramid Thing's footsteps.

"It's following us," Lisa whimpered, trying to keep a clear head.

"It's following her," Kaufmann corrected. "Keep going. Quickly now."

The monster was much slower than they, and within minutes they'd put enough fog between them that it could no longer be seen or heard. With it thus shaken off their trail they returned to the Lighthouse, unlocked the front door and then locked it safely again behind them. Lisa ran off to gather sheets, buckets of water, medical supplies and wash cloths. Kaufmann studied the unconscious girl's pained expression until Lisa returned. Then they settled Heather down on the sheets and began stripping her of clothing and washing away the blood.

To their relief, they found only a few nasty bruises and clear sines of chaffing; most of the blood had not been her own. As Lisa was working red ichor free from her hair and Kaufmann draped a warm blanket over the rest of her, the pair gradually became aware of a slow, deep, penetrating sound in the distance.

Michael looked up first; then Lisa a few seconds later. After a minute it became clear that they had not 'shaken' the Pyramid Creature. Justice had followed them. The footfalls boomed up the lighthouse staircase, step by step. "It... It came out of the fog?" Lisa whispered in dismay. There was a moment of panicked silence.

Then came the ominous sounds of lighthouse doorknob jiggling and turning without assistance from the material world. The locks and deadbolts slid open of their own accord. The knob turned slowly, revealing the monster behind it. The Pyramid Thing leaned heavily in the open doorway, its tongue wriggling through the air, heavy wheezing wracking its frame.

After a moment, it took a slow step into the lighthouse, a gnarled hand reaching out to grasp a couch for support. It limped towards them but lost its balance, and fell with a tremendously heavy thud onto the floor. Blood splattered around it, and its helmet's tip cut a thick groove into the wooden floorboards

Both ghosts jumped. Then they stared in awe and discomfort, watching as the Pyramid thing shakily tried to right itself, failed, and slumped back down. A black tongue tasted the air for a few seconds before retracting. Then the only sound that came from it was the noise of its ragged breathing. After a long moment of stillness and quiet, Dr. Kaufmann stood and walked around it to the lighthouse door. He closed it and restored the locks one by one.

"H-how do we get rid of it?" Lisa called to him.

"I don't think we can," he noted in a low voice, turning around to view the monster. "It's much too heavy to try dragging it out, and if we tried killing it I doubt our bullets would do better than what the cult's did. Even though it may appear weak, I'm not sure I want to know what it might still be capable of if we bothered it."

"So we just leave it here? Till it can move again? It'll kill us!" She looked distressed at Heahter and then made to pick the girl up. The Pyramid Thing growled low at her, a sound that shook her to her bones. Lisa tensed, her eyes round and fearful. "... Michael..." she whispered, "What was it doing with her...? Why's it here...?"

Kaufmann shook his head uncertainly, looking down at the creature. It was simultaneously a god, a little girl's delusion, a beast, a tool, and also none of the above- all united in one entity. The vagueness made his head spin. "It's Heather's," the doctor decided after a long moment of silence. "She created a protector. Something Xipe couldn't stop. And... for whatever reason... _this_ is what Silent Hill delivered." He paused and then shook his head. "The cult must have found them... I don't think anything else could have pushed Heather so far so fast."

"Michael..." Lisa whispered, staring frightened at the Thing. "Where's Alex...?"

The Red Pyramid shifted slightly and then rumbled warningly as Lisa carefully lowered Heather back down and released her. A moment of silence passed between them as both ghosts realized they already knew the truth: Alex Shepherd was gone.

* * *

Elle was inconsolable. She had locked herself in her room and was sobbing heavily. Douglass had popped the doorlock with a credit card and gone in just to keep an eye on her. Silent Hill survivors were known for doing dumb things when confronted by the loss of a loved one. Out in the atrium, Eileen has just given a cup of tea to the shaking James Sunderland. Laura watched her Dad with concern, although she still didn't quite get why he'd seen something while the others had not. He hadn't said much to clarify, and his appearance was still green around the edges.

"Are you okay?" Henry asked the man after James had imbibed a few mouthfuls. Mr. Sunderland nodded but shuddered soon afterward.

"I will be."

"Can you tell us what you saw...?"

At that he winced but nodded a second time. "I think so. I'm still trying to digest it."

"You said... She's alive?"

"She... " He took a deep breath, "I saw what happened because she summoned a Red Pyramid. Which... I guess means I still have some point of connection to them. She called it straight into the church while they were trying to execute her, and it went berserk killing people left and right. I thought it would kill her for a moment, but right now I... I'm _sure_ she's alive."

"What about Alex?"

James grimaced. "I felt what she was thinking, Henry. Maybe through Walter. She was overwhelmed, and her thoughts were moving too fast for me to follow. But all the gore... ... ... Henry... Henry, they killed him in front of her. They took him apart and made her watch."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Eileen began to cry silently.

Henry stared at James a long moment, and then looked quietly down at his hands. "But..." he mumbled thoughtfully, then shook his head and looked up at James in uncertain fear. "She's not going to make it through that alone. What can we do?"

Eileen's phone range. She stood up and went to answer it. After a moment she looked back at her husband and James Sunderland. "Travis just crossed the state border," she told them. "He'll be here in just a few hours."

* * *

When Heather woke up, the first thing she experienced was pain. At first it was just a general pain, the sort that permeated her every bone and muscular fiber; that ran out to every corner of herself. Then the pain began to solidify into clumps. Her head was pounding. Her stomach was swimming and nauseous. Her body ached where she had bruised and chaffed. Her throat was raw. The headache transcended from physical pain into mental pain, and then higher still into emotional. Her body convulsed. She did not open her eyes, but she vomited heavily over the edge of perhaps a couch. The universe hated her. The universe had stolen from her.

"Alex," she croaked miserably, because no amount of unconscious haziness could occlude or hide or rub amnesia over the fact that her partner was simply gone. _"Alex..."_

She heard the sound of something incredibly heavy scrape over wood. Her eyes opened, then shut when the light of the world was too blinding. Her head spun. She vomited again, and then sobbed brokenly several times. Everything hurt. She tried slowly, miserably, to work her eyes open. What she saw was disoriented and seemed to rock around her chaotically. She squeezed her eyes shut several times to keep her from puking anymore- which would have made her throat worse- and instead sniffled and whimpered as she tried to gain a handle on existence.

The lighthouse atrium slowly swam into view. She was laying on the couch, dressed in a new set of her own clothing. The lighthouse porch light was on and Michael's coat was missing, suggesting that the doctor had gone out for fresh air and to ensure nothing approached the lighthouse exterior. Tears formed in Heather's eyes. Her throat ached and burned. "Alex," she whimpered.

She heard the grind of metal against wood again, a strange sound. Struggling against her own waves of pain, Heather slowly sat up on the couch. She grabbed at the back and arm rests, un-entangled herself from the blankets, and shakily tried to haul herself to her feet. As she lifted her head higher than the back rest of the couch, she finally saw _him_. He was still lying where he had fallen many hours earlier, the tip of his red helmet grinding chips out of the antique woodwork. He was slicked in blood so badly that the runoff had made puddles around him.

Her eyes opened wide at the sight of him. For a long moment, Heather Mason was very, very, very still. Then she was clambering hand over foot over the couch and towards him. She staggered up to his fallen form and then collapsed to her knees at his side. "Y-you..." she gasped inarticulately, staring horrified and awestruck at him, at this monster, at this executioner, this harbinger of death, this _thing which should have sacrificed her_, and yet which lay broken and wounded upon the lighthouse floor. Heather slumped to her knees beside him, touching his shoulder and helmet uncertainly. The monster grumbled and rocked his weight for a moment. Then he slid one muscular arm across the floor and coiled it protectively around her legs.

Fresh tears sprung up in Heather Mason's eyes. She stared down at this monster, _her_ monster, this incarnation of hatred, self-loathing, rape, masochism, and punishment. A low cry worked it way up from the depths of her chest, and then she was pushing her arms around the great helmet and the overly muscled shoulders. She clung to the monster as if he were life itself, sagged her weight down into it, and began sobbing like a helpless child.

Michael Kaufmann had just re-entered the lighthouse, and he blinked in surprise upon seeing where she was. The Pyramid Thing tightened his arm about her, and rumbled back almost gently.

"Heather...?" Michael asked her. The girl in question could not respond, only cry. Her fingers moved over the bloody flesh of her rescuer, and only after a time did she slowly prop herself back up, look down at him and realize just how injured he was.

"You're hurt," she mumbled dumbly. It was at that point she noticed Kaufmann had come up beside her, and she turned a desperate and needing gaze up to the doctor. "He's... Alex d... A... It..." She shuddered and sniffled and had to wipe her face. Dr. Kaufmann knelt and slowly placed a hand on her shoulder. "_Michael_," she shuddered, and when she could finally speak all that would come out was: "Do you have... do you have some thread...?"

Kaufmann stared at her for a very long moment. Then he nodded, and went off quickly to fetch both a first aid and sewing kit. He returned to her with both under his left arm, and knelt down to settle them at her side. Heather mumbled a weak 'thank you' to him and then shakily pulled out the materials she needed. She tried unsuccessfully several times to thread the needle before finally closing her eyes and taking in a deep steadying breath. Her trembles slowly reduced in magnitude. Then after a long moment she released the breath, opened her eyes, and neatly threaded the needle.

She knelt over the Pyramid Head, grabbed a thimble, and then pushed the needle gingerly into his thick flesh. It was something like sewing leather, and she wagered she would need to switch to a larger needle after a time. The monster did not so much as twitch. Either needle pokes were too minor a pain to bother him, or his pain receptors were already blotted over with the magnitude of his present condition. Heather sewed the first laceration up, and then moved unthinkingly on to the second. The monster was covered in so many wounds it seemed impossible to stitch them all, but Heather seemed completely undaunted by the task. The needle dove and tugged, dove and tugged. In fact, her pacing intensified as she worked, until her motions had become almost frantic, and tears were threatening to obscure her vision.

She sewed up his tattered body. In her mind she saw a bloody heart-shape drawn sloppily over a plane of glass. Kaufmann watched, and brought her food he insisted she eat, but otherwise he did not disturb her. When Lisa found them and made to comment, he waved her to silence.

* * *

Heat billowed out from the depths of the metaphorical abyss. It wafted through the halls, alternately boiling and hardening the clay. Creatures flocked to it and were nurtured or incinerated by it. New forms grew and old ones were devoured. After eons of entropy, new life flooded the bowels of hell. The creatures churned in its agonizing and glorious embrace. They preferred this infinite death, this constant rebirth, to the silence and stillness of nothing.

The heat had not gone unnoticed. It had attracted much curious attention, and not just from those simple creatures with the resilience necessary to bare the incredible heat.

A raging fire burned within the depths of seven hot kilns, which smoked away furiously in acrid fogs. A massive forge was open in the center of the chamber, hot but lightless magma flowing through its life-like vessels. Before it, the Smith stood tall, proud, mighty red crest held high as he swung each mighty blow of a great and powerful hammer. The hammerfalls were as thunder, rocking the foundations of the abyss. Each one made sparks and smoke rise high.

The Scribe was livid. The Smith brought down his next stroking with a thunderous, laughing roar. She was _bold_ to think her pleasure ought to supersede his own, but perhaps not foolish enough to accost him directly. Nothing would dare come to this place while he still enjoyed some measure of freedom; nothing, perhaps, but his twin. One of his arms was wrapped to the shoulder with chains and the pathetic tongues of flame which now sought to reinforce them. The other, the one holding the hammer, was completely and utter bare. Things had not been such for eons. And while it lasted, justice would be done in _his_ way, not after the fashion of scheming angels or their foolish and warring followers.

The Scribe was frightened, he knew, frightened for her sinful, delicate man-things. He growled in a brutal laugh and brought down the hammer again. He was making something, something to trample the ember which had dared to awaken him. The angels feared him, hated him. This was not the way the pantheon was supposed to be! The demon Smith was _meant_ to be subdued, lest his strength destroy all creation. Man was the charge of angels; the demon was only _their tool_, a repugnant creature which could not understand scripture, laws, or the love God bore for-

He roared, because the Scribe's presumptions had offended him on a level too great to laugh about. _**D**_**_O NOT PRESUME TO KNOW HER LOVE BETTER THAN_ I!** The demon roared, his tremendous voice shaking the structure of the abyss and causing The Scribe to shudder down to her mortal manifestations. _**I AM HERS AND HERS ALONE. YOU ARE FOREVER TARNISHED BY LOVE OF MAN!**_

Things were out of control. The pantheon was in chaos but for one witch, one false goddess, one uncontrollable sacrifice, and _he had ensured that she lived_.

Because it would be HE that unmade her. She would be sacrificed for no scheme, to no angel, for no mortal interest. She was unfit to bear God, as all humans were unfit for God's glory. There would be no mercy, no penance, no honor onto her. She would be destroyed, from the stuff of her spirit that gave her faux warmth, to every fiber of her memory that still lingered in the fabric of the Otherworld. She would die. She would die in _his_ way. And they- except perhaps his twin- would remain out of his way lest he take his frustrations out on their followers.

As the Smith thought of his twin, his hammer came down harder than usual. It bounced from the metal of mortal sin, from the terrible Judgement- an impossible test- that he now wrought. But then the hammer hovered still for a moment as the Smith considered his heated but lightless work. No light. Never light. There could be no light, because there was no longer any Sun to provide it. Light was too fragile, too powerful, too transient to survive without a Source.

He who knew God better than any; He who could not be corrupted, mislead, or lied t; He who represented her fury incarnate; He who embodied the unblemished truth of justice; Deep down something terrible, something unheard of, an _uncertainty_, a _hope_, a _hesitance_ had taken root in him.

There was another reason, an unspoken, deadly, blasphemous reason, for why the Witch could not die until he had smothered her gift. He needed to demonstrated its falsehood, and uprooted its core from her being. As he stared at his craft, The Smith remembered the touch of the Witch's spirit, and the heat that had emanated from her hair. And he remembered-

He threw down the hammer with such force it shattered the earth beneath him, and then turned an unseeing gaze up towards the metaphor of heaven, towards where he knew The Scribe had unwritten _something_, some perceived blasphemy, from his Twin's memory. In that moment he was so fueled with anger, frustration, and confusion that he could scarcely think. _**How. Did. She. Glow? **_he demanded violently, but of course there was no one to answer him.


	36. Father Figure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derp, I looked back and saw all the Kaufman's I hadn't fixed to Kaufmann's, and all the Laurens I hadn't fixed to Laura's, and I flailed. Call me out if I do it again!

Heather worked for hours and hours, tidying up every last remaining lacerations she could find. At first, Michael and Lisa stayed nearby to watch over her. But as time drew on and Heather remained steadfastly focused on the task, Kaufmann eventually took Ms. Garland by the hand and pulled her into an adjacent room.

"We're leaving her in there with it alone?" his nurse and receptionist asked him once they were alone, face drawn.

Kaufmann nodded. "Something terrible happened. Those frantic stitches aren't a coincidence. She needs to heal something, because someone has taken away her ability to heal _him_."

Alex is dead," Lisa noted sadly. "You're sure of it."

Kaufmann was silent.

Lisa looked towards the door. "It's not going to hurt her," she realized. "But I don't understand why. Even Ican tell what that is, Michael. That's no protector. That's _hate_ in there."

As an ex-cultist, Kaufmann had been considering the same question. The Red and Yellow deities were often confused in cult theology. It was never clear where one began and the other ended; sometimes they switched places entirely or merged into one. Granted. But there was no mistaking the Pyramid Head represented the demon half, and that demon could not be prayed to, did not help mortals, and dealt only in death; the best defense against it was aglaophotis.

After a moment he realized he heard the sound of a car engine. Perplexed, he moved to push open a the lighthouse window and stare curiously out into the distant fog. When he thought he saw a bit of movement, he went to grab a pair of binoculars and returned to give himself a better look. A sinking feeling entered his gut as he saw first one humanoid figure, then another, another, and another.

"What is it?" Lisa asked.

"The cultists," Kaufmann told her, "They've found the lighthouse!"

A fear shot up the nurse's spine. For a moment she was paralyzed. The Pyramid monster was still injured. Heather had lost everything when the cult had kidnapped her. They had only a single gun and the lighthouse was not easily fortified. Then something dawned on her.

"They're not leaving the fog?" she asked.

Kaufmann looked up at his receptionist and shook his head. "This is Alessa's place."

* * *

When Heather finished the stitches, she fetched a pail of water. The Pyramid Monster shifted slightly, dragging the tip of his helm across the ground to 'watch' her. When she returned, she found that he was trying to rise. She quickly knelt back beside him and began scrubbing filth from his side, and he settled back against the floor. The task was grotesque. Each wipe of the cloth pulled gore and bits of flesh from around his massive lacerations. It took ten refills and half a dozen towels, but she scrubbed every inch of grime and filth from his skin.

As the job neared completion, jaundiced and purple-veined flesh no longer caked with liters of grime, Heather abruptly dropped her wash cloth. She pressed her bare hands into his shoulder blade, her fingers digging onto what scarce undamaged skin they could find as spasms shook through her frame. A wave of exhaustion overcame her suddenly, with pain boiling up her gut and tears slipping anew down her cheeks.

What now?

"Alex..." she whispered to herself. The monster seemed to take notice of her and shifted slightly, dragging the tip of his helmet a few inches in her direction. The arm coiled about where she sat moved, the fingertips touching her and accessing her condition. His gestures seemed strange and out of place. She wiped her nose and took a harder look at him, trying to understand what she had done.

Was this Alex Shepherd's Bogeyman?

That would have made a certain sickening amount of sense, as the Bogeyman in question had just lost his 'owner' and Silent Hill liked to pull shit of that nature. A wave of nauseous familiarity rushed over her.

This monster dressed in a skirt of flesh, and was unrealistically fit, big, tall and heavy. He would have towered over her while standing. He did not wear gloves. The helmet was triangular in the front instead of flat. In fact, overall, the monster looked _very much_ like Alex Shepherd's monster. But Heather had been up close and personal with the Bogeyman (too personal) and been permitted to observe it to a very fine degree of detail. After a momentary panic, she realized there was one glaring difference between the two monsters that was immediately obvious: This Pyramid's helmet was blood red instead of black.

Heather loosed a long and shaky breath she didn't know she had been holding, as her fingers traced uncertainly down the slope of the helmet. It seemed her monster was slightly shorter than Alex's Bogeyman as well. But the similarities were still uncanny. Where had this Pyramid Thing had come from? Was it specific to her? Unlikely... It took an inordinate amount of hate to make a Pyramid Monster, and Heather had been dead inside rather than enraged. Also, her monsters tended to have fused fingers and burns. Given the circumstances, she wagered he had merely been re-purposed as she had called him to her.

After a moment, a long black tongue slithered out from under the helmet. Heather grimaced but then frowned when the slimy appendage touched her cheek. It _wasn't_ slimy. It wasn't oily, or dripping in black sebaceous ooze. In fact, it felt like snakeskin.

Who had made this creature? In a way he felt tailored to her and familiar; in another she was _sure_ she had only called him. She hesitantly lifted a hand and touched the waxy black tongue. It curled slowly around her fingertips. Maybe it really was Alex Shepherd's Bogeyman, and calling on it/him had simply changed a few attributes. Didn't Kaufmann say that Heather had had an 'effect' on Valtiel? Well that 'effect' hadn't been permanent, but it had certainly been noticeable. That would explainthis familiarity...

Heather Mason hung her head as a wave of emotion coursed over her. Too many memories hit all at once, and she couldn't come up with a puzzle to push them back fast enough. She needed something to do, something to fix, someone to heal, something to figure out, something to kill, a mystery to solve, a-.

_Alex is Dead. Valtiel is Lost._

Then the tongue smeared up against her cheek, wiping salty tears from her face, and Heather nearly jumped out of her skin. Her eyes opened wide and she looked down at the monster before her. A dread built up in her, a dread and a hope that she was worried might consume her if she were not careful. She found herself shaking slightly. Then more hot tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Please," she whispered, knowing that she sacrificed her sanity to the winds in doing so. "_Please._ Don't leave me." It was quite fair to say that no incarnation of Xuchibara the Red God had ever before heard such profane words. The Pyramid Thing kept licking salt from her face. Heather trembled. A long moment passed in silence. She fingered over the helmet.

Could it be removed? What was underneath it? She suspected he might resemble Valtiel.

Then suddenly the Red Pyramid twitched. He tried to lift his head in one direction, failed, and surrendered back to the forces of gravity. Heather frowned and looked in the direction he seemed interested in. For a moment, she was nothing out of the ordinary, just the boring and slightly gray insides of the Otherworld lighthouse. Then she noticed the mirror.

* * *

When Travis Grady entered the lighthouse, everyone moved to the door to greet him. He took of his cap and gave a polite nod to Eileen and Laura, before staring pointedly at James and Henry. "Where is she?" he asked.

Henry shook his head unknowingly. "We lost track of her yesterday morning. I tried to send her a letter but... even if she got it, she has no way of answering us."

The truck driver swore, lowering his head and rubbing his neck as he thought about the gravity of the situation. "You're sure the boy's dead?" he asked bitterly, and glanced at the lighthouse doorway beside him.

"Heather seemed to think so," James answered quietly. There were soft footsteps on the lighthouse stairs, and then a new face was standing hesitantly in the doorway, peering nervously at the crowd of survivors within. Travis glanced at him and then waved him through.

"This is Murphy," he told the group, and then gestured to each of the survivors in turn to introduce them. "Eileen, Laura, James, Henry."

The newcomer entered and nodded quietly to them, avoiding eye contact. It wasn't exactly that he looked frightened or like he desperately wanted to escape the town; more it seemed that he was a quiet man and had no idea where to even begin. The befriended survivors were equally awkward. Simultaneously they wanted to get straight to talking about Heather Mason, but at the same time they had been interested in meeting the latest 'addition' to their family since Travis had first mentioned Murphy Pendleton. Without Heather there to break the ice, the welcoming party to Silent Hill Survivors Anonymous seemed incomplete.

After a moment they realized they had to sort of ignore Murphy and quickly turned to the topic of where and how Heather had last shown up on the radar. The last they'd made contact, James had seen her captured by the cult, hysterical with grief, and only ten meters away from a raging Pyramid Monster. Mr. Sunderland then had to firmly defend his position that it _felt_ like Heather was still very much alive, and perhaps even safe at the moment.

Laura lifted her brows, first at the adults and then at the quiet man they'd been forced to shelve till later. She knew she had already expended her flirtatious luck on an undead serial murderer and ought not tempt fate any further that week. But old habits died hard and after a moment she gave up and smiled at the older man. "Yo, sorry about the cold reception," she began, taking a few steps closer to him and gesturing to where the other four were arguing. "They're just busy worrying their hair gray over Heather at the moment."

Murphy looked uncertainly at her for a moment. The first thing he said was: "I'm married."

Laura paused, blinked several times in confusion, and then tilted her head to the side. "Do I really come off that strong?" she asked. "I was so _sure_ I was just trying to be friendly..."

"_Laura!_" her father interrupted crossly, apparently possessed of the same hypersensitive awareness that permitted all parents to know what their children were doing, even if such awareness tended to interrupt other important life-or-death meetings (like how the hell were they going to save Heather Mason?).

Eileen couldn't help but giggle, even though the situation with Heather was tense. "Your daughter's 'friendly' is synonymous with 'tigress stalking prey.' " James made a fast as Mrs. Townshend, but couldn't shake the mental image of Laura conversationally chatting up Walter Sullivan from his mind.

"That's not fair," Laura protested, "I didn't even say a single come on!"

Henry lowered his eyes. "It is more in the body language. The subtleties..."

Travis muttered something under his breath, reached absently for a cigarette he no longer carried, and then lowered his hand. "Does _anyone_ have a dry erase marker?" he asked, looking around the atrium and prodding a pen holder.

Henry blinked at him."A pen won't work?"

"No, have to write on a slick surface," Travis muttered. "Needs to be a marker, or... hell I'd settle for a bar of wet soap."

That seemed to scramble the squadron. After a moment of checking the receptionist's desk and various pockets, Eileen pulled out a tube of lipstick and hurried up to hand it to the man. Travis took it and thanked her, and then walked up to the large atrium mirror.

* * *

As Heather watched the mirror, something began to _change_. Drawn in bright red lipstick, a handsome scrawl was appearing letter by letter across the polished surface.

'Heather?' it asked.

An electric thrill shot up her spine and she bolted over the Pyramid and up towards the mirror. For a moment she looked frantically around her for something to write with. Then she realized she still had blood on her, and she elected to use that. 'Travis!' she wrote back.

Pragmatically, the question mark disappeared from the lipstick sentence and transformed into an exclamation. "Heather!" the mirror now read. Choking back tears of relief, Heather similarly modified her own message to, 'Travis!'

A moment passed, and then she received the response, 'The hell are you writing with?'

Heather made a face, but then couldn't repress a snicker. 'I didn't know you wore lipstick,' she replied. She glanced behind her at where the Pyramid Thing was fidgeting and trying to rise. His wheezing breath made it clear how difficult the activity was. "Fuck!" she called and then hurried back to where it was struggling. "No, no! Lie down, lie down," she reassured it, touching it shoulder and back. "I'm fine. See? I'm not going anywhere."

The monster rumbled and protested for a moment, still trying to rise. Then abruptly it sagged back down into the floorboards with a metallic groan. Heather shuddered. She looked around and then, perhaps more like Travis Grady than she realized, picked up a nearby bar of wet soap and hurried back to the mirror.

'What happened?' the truck driver had written, this time in black felt marker. It seemed someone had finally given him a proper writing implement. The question sent a pang through Heather that rocked her back on her heels for a moment. She stared at the words for a long time, took a deep breath, and then, pressed the soap up against the surface.

* * *

'Alex is dead,' came the soapy response, a weight that settled heavily down on everyone else within the lighthouse. As everyone else tried to figure out what to tell her, how to reassure her, or what to do to help her, Travis B-Lined through unnecessary thinking and wrote immediately, 'I'm sorry.'

A response came quickly in progressively sloppy calligraphy as Heather rapidly etched out an explanation. 'Cult. Couldn't save him.'

And while the room around him protested that it wasn't her fault and there was nothing she could have done and that this was just Silent Hill's way, Travis answered her with, 'Are you safe?'

'For now.' The others died down and watched as the conversation play out.

'Good. He'd appreciate.'

A precipitation formed on the glass, including smudge marks. When droplets of water appeared and began to clear away lettering, Travis understood that she'd leaned her forehead into the glass and was crying. He cleared away some of the old writing to make room for something new. This time, he tried hesitated a moment before putting down words. When he at last started to write, Henry could perceive a shudder in the man's arm.

'Do you need me to come?' he asked her, and the asking itself was difficult. It had been so long- so many more years for him than for any of them- but the fear still lingered.

'NO.'

'Will you let me?' he clarified.

She circled the 'NO.'

'Will you break every mirror in the house if I try?'

'YES.'

'Will you make it through this alive?'

For a long moment, no answer came. The room held it's collective breath. Then Heather began erasing everything she'd written, no doubt using water to get the caked soap off the glass. The tension grew until the glass was again dry, and she wrote a single word upon it's surface: 'Yes.'

'Then what do you need to do next?'

* * *

"Heather!" Kaufmann called, entering the atrium with binoculars in hand. He'd gone up to the top of the beacon and followed the sweep of its light as it dusted fog from the surrounding areas. "The lighthouse is surrounded."

Heather blinked, looking up from where she was writing. "What?"

Kaufmann blinked. "Were you able to contact them?"

She nodded. "What do you mean the lighthouse is surrounded?"

"Come look," he told her, gesturing to the front window. Heather quickly followed him and then accepted the binoculars when he gave them to her. The two of them peered through the window for a long moment. Then Heather took in a sharp breath when the lighthouse beacon briefly revealed the entities hiding out in the fog. "It's not just here either," Kaufman warned. "They've three boats on the lake. We're surrounded."

There was an instant of hopeless panic, followed by a burst of insight and at last a calm and brutal certainty. Heather set down the binoculars and looked up at Michael Kaufmann.

"What are you going to do?" he asked. He was the second person in a short time to ask the same question.

"I have to get out into the fog," Heather told him, but she was more answering Travis Grady about her travel plans than she was addressing the cultist threat. "I'm guessing if I head for the next Seal of the Metatron, Silent Hill will provide. I'll find a weapon, at least. And some clues. Perhaps I can figure out what to do next."

"But you can't leave," Kaufmann pointed out the obvious and drawing her back to the present. "Not with them watching on all sides."

"Let me think," was all she said. "I might have an idea." After a moment she turned around an walked past Kaufmann and up to the mirror, and it occurred to her that Travis's writing had gone missing. 'Travis?' she wrote. The word held together for a moment and then began to melt as if the soap were being heated. Her eyes narrowed.

She looked around the room and then seized hold of a towel saturated with the Pyramid Monster's blood, dropping the bar of soap on the mantlepiece. She carried it up to the mirror, wet her fingers in red gore, and then began to paint the Seal of the Metatron on it's surface. She etched in every tiny detail, ignoring the way the glass heated up under her fingertips. When the symbol was completed she dropped the towel with a wet thud and laid her bloody fingertips over the glass. High above her, nearly forgotten over the top of the lighthouse, an orange symbol burned softly and snow began to melt.

The glass seemed to crack and burn in places. Rust and ichor spread over it, and then receded. The monster's name had been Impotence. The cult had broken with all previous precedents and sacrificed her not over the Halo of the Sun but over the Seal of the Metatron. As always, something in Silent Hill refused to make sense.

There was a shudder, and then then mirror began to change colors. Soon it reflected not the gray interior of the Otherworld lighthouse, but the fully saturated light of the real world. Travis Grady, standing in the reflected room, blinked in surprise. Ha.

"What the?" he asked her.

"Long story," she told him with bitterness but also a little triumph. "Look, I lost most of my weapons fighting in some rust-world hell underneath the rear room alter, and the cult stripped me of everything else. Conventional nonsense suggests you'll find my katana for sale in the antique shop and I'd like to have it back, please. This might sound crazy, but can you stash it in the school janitorial closet before nightfall?"

"Kid," Travis muttered, looking at the Seal which had just appeared in the corner of the mirror, clearly drawn in blood, and then looking back at her, "what have you done?"

The Mason girl was quiet a moment, her bloody fingertips still hovering against the glass. She didn't look at anyone else in the room other than Travis Grady; not James nor Henry nor Eileen. She looked straight into the face of the man who freaked her out most in the world and yet seemed to get her best; whose presence she couldn't stand more than a few hours and yet whose judgement she trusted utterly.

In that moment she knew Travis Grady was the closest thing Alessa Gillespie had ever had to a father figure. He'd been called in by Dhalia to save her against her wishes. He'd been scorned by Alessa for his own carefully repressed internal violence, and used like an Executioner -like she'd later use Samael- to try and ensure her own murder. And in the end he had protected her, saved her. He must have served as the benchmark for the man Alessa would end up picking to father Cheryl Mason. Was Travis Grady one of the reasons Valtiel had once protected Heather? She reasoned he was one of many, just like Walter; nothing in Silent Hill was ever simple.

But thinking about her father and Valtiel brought back hard memories. "Look," she said at last, and tried hard not to tear up, "Look I... I can't talk about... I just lost..."

"Kid..."

Heather wiped her face with one arm and took a slow breath. "Please just let me focus on goals," she murmured. "I _just_ figured out what I have to do."

He nodded. "Tell us what you need."

"As many door unlocked as you can manage," she told him, "and we'll see how many ripple all the way to where I am."

Travis studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. "Heather. You have to come back to us in one piece. We're waiting on ya."

She snorted and gave something of a mischievous smile. "If I don't, you're all fucked, so consider it a promise. I'm switching the channel. Take care of Elle for us."

"When are you headed out?" Travis asked her, carefully not pointing out her use of 'us.'

"Nightfall," she said, earning a startled jump from Kaufmann who overheard her.

When Heather released the mirror and the reflection turned a cloudy black, Travis turned around to look at the rest of the men assembled. For a moment they all just stared at the bloody Seal where it remained clear upon the mirror's edge.

"Well? You heard the woman!" he observed. "Let's _move_!"


	37. Safe Space

When the sky began to grow dark at four fifteen that cold December evening, Heather idly began to wonder why Toluca Lake had not begun to freeze yet that year. As she and Kaufmann watched, the men obstructing her path from the lighthouse began to shift about nervously. The Mason girl could already feel the night stirring through the fog. Now and then an unnatural whistle, a creaking building, a distant murmur hinted at what was coming.

By four thirty most of the cultists had packed up and departed, and the night air was an all-together different scene. There could be no doubt that something grossly unnatural was afoot. The occasional lying figure or straying gray child was acceptable during the day, but the hoots and shrieks and rumbles working their way up from the depths of hell made the hair stand up on the back of a man's neck and his skin prickle with the absolute certainty that he needed to flee. Then the Air Sirens began to blare. That was the signal to get out.

By four thirty seven, the last car was speeding away from the lighthouse. The ambiance had grown to a tremendous level and writhing forms were starting to appear in the darkness.

Heather nodded. "Time to go."

Kaufmann shook his head. "I don't understand what you're doing, Heather. It's clear this night cycle is designed to restrict your motion. It's not _meant_ to be fought, its meant to be avoided. Like a rolling boulder or rising flood waters."

She glanced at him. "Is it?" she asked. "I suppose I'm about to find out." Her response was deft, even flippant, as she went to shoulder her new backpack and pin a flashlight under her arm. She made sure it was held carefully in place. Kaufmann made to speak again but then paused as the young woman turned towards him. Her face seemed aged by trauma and yet calm, wise, and certain. Her eyes held a fire, a sureness.

"Why should I be scared of Silent Hill?" she asked him. "She's a cruel and vicious bitch who will kick the shit out of us and try to break us any way she can. But whenever we come through, she's very fair. She's even let us kill 'God' for good behavior."

Kaufmann frowned. "You're trusting the town. You think it—she—_wants_ you out there. So there has to be a way around Edwin's blockade."

"I'm counting on it," she decided. "If I persevere, she won't just let me around him. She'll expose a way to kill him."

Michael was quiet a moment. It seemed he understood, but his face took on a sad expression. "You were originally trapped here with noble intent," he noted, "but it seems Silent Hill won't let you pursue any quest but vengeance."

Heather grimaced and headed for the door. She heard the grind of a heavy metal helmet over the floor and made a settle-down gesture as she departed.

* * *

There had been a small mishap on the return from the unhallowed grounds at Toluca Lighthouse; but it was hard to truly lament the loss of one life in service to the Goddess when so many had perished that very morning. As he looked around the Temple of the Crucible, Edwin once again counted the still forms wrapped in red cloth and laid to rest in concentric semi-circles around the temple's heart.

"She has been contained for the evening," one of the faithful was telling him.

"Thank you," the religious patron murmured, placing a hand gently on his servant's shoulder and blessing him. "Go in peace."

When they were again alone, Edwin turned back to face the other sect leaders. They were seven in total, eight if one counted their guest from Utah, and represented the sum of the Order's faithful across Maine, eastern Quebec, southern New Brunswick, the majority of New Hampshire, and northern Vermont. Most could not devote their lives so utterly to the faith at did Edwin, as their respective businesses helped to keep the church alive and growing on the mortal plane.

Patricia, the homely, plain, weasel-faced woman to Edwin's left was the undisputed leader of the entire Holy Mother Sect. Though her sect enjoyed only a moderately sized membership, it was the single largest sect which maintained complete unification under a single head. As such, Patricia could command considerable human resources. The Sect of the Holy Mother was known for its quiet patience and its studious archiving, translation, and memorization of the Word. It was slow to act, patient, careful, quiet, and never impulsive— though Edwin knew these traits were learned habits as opposed to natural inclinations. Beneath Patricia's bitter, derisive, and calculating exterior was buried an impulsive ruthlessness.

On Edwin's right, the newly ascended Sergei now donned his sect's crimson hood. Directly opposite to the Sect of the Holy Mother, the Sect of Valtiel enjoyed no central leadership. It's members spanned six continents and boasted members hailing from each and every country in North and South America. However, as they devoted themselves to Valtiel and not directly to God, it was the Sect's nature to act as public servants for the good of the other faithful. Unlike his predecessor, Sergei had greater ties to Patricia than to Edwin. And that might possibly pose a problem, because Patricia was hungry for blood.

The unfriendly atmosphere she stirred up was by no means unfamiliar to Edwin. As a male high-priest in a female-dominated clergy, he knew what it meant to fight, kill, and manipulate in order to gain power and maintain order. He was—and he knew it—the strongest and most unifying force the Order had experienced in over two centuries. But that alone was hardly enough to maintain his position. Every day required a firm hand and a firmer voice.

Edwin presided over the largest, most volatile, most powerful, and most fragmented of all the sects; The Sect of the Holy Woman. His predecessors had been powerful conjurers, blessed by the Goddess with the power to bring about her paradise. But in almost every instance, the sect's faithful had inevitably turned against one another, with one enlightened individual disavowing the other's sanity. Edwin alone seemed to be able to hold the Sect together; he had unified its goals across thirty-two states and seven countries and was close to upending local leaders world-wide. It was his sect which believed in creating a mortal Mother of God; just as the Sect of the Holy Mother believed they needed to channel her into an object.

Edwin had been waiting for Patricia to strike for some time. In its struggles to restore God, his highly active Sect of the Holy Woman would inevitably stumble across complications. Of course he had been waiting patiently for the first such failure; Patricia was a predictable creature and there was no mistaking that she had been quietly waiting for a weak spot to prod at. Only now Edwin wasn't presenting her one.

"It's sweet to see how much they trust you," she said, in much the same voice as she would comment to an opposing grade school soccer-mom that it was, 'sweet how much your little boy tried.' Edwin smiled gently at her as she continued: "I guess they think the demon would have torn down the whole church without you and your 'angel.' How many did you lose this time, Edwin? Sixteen?" He imagined her saying, 'How many teeth did your little Jeremy lose again? Four? Well he played _so hard_.' "That's not so bad. I mean, not for you. How many did you lose in Utah during the coup, again?"

"There is another loss I would like to focus on," Edwin began, diverting the conversation with the ease of a well-honed political flourish, "and that is the loss experienced by the Wolf family seven years ago with the deaths of Leonard and Claudia Wolfe. Unfortunately neither Leonard nor his daughter left any account of their interaction with the Holy Mother, or information that might unveil what precisely happened here this very morning. Relatives have also been unable to uncover the truth through divination. We are eager to reach out to the other faithful. We also reach out to those who once knew and cherished Dahlia Gillespie, in the hopes that they may have insight into this dilemma."

"Well that's interesting," Patricia noted, "you're asking _us_ for information on _your_ Sect's most powerful clergy? Is the Sect of the Holy Woman _still_ having communication problems? You should bring in a counselor."

"We must determine what happened here," Edwin explained gently. "This place should have been the safest of temples... and yet today we endured a slaughter. Before we can proceed, we must determine how the demon was summoned, and what role the Mother played in its appearance. Perhaps through Dhalia's, Leonard's, and Claudia's experiences with Alessa, we can unearth some answers."

"It was a blasphemy," Sergei said suddenly, surprising Patricia and Edwin both with his forthrightness.

She gave him an evil eye and asked in an absurd voice, "Excuse me?"

"The Witch. The Blessed Mother," Sergei explained, his voice low and contemplative but not nervous. "She remains Alessa. She remains a conjurer. Through blasphemy, through her dark gifts, she seized control of the Seal as we focused on other prayers. She compromised it, perverted it and inverted it's purpose. You both underestimated her."

"The Seal?" Patricia squawked and then scolded viciously, "The Seal of _your_ Metatron? _Your_ angel? And _we_ are at fault_?_ It seems to me that you-"

Seregei stood tall and narrowed his gaze to Patricia. "The Seal requires the hand of a powerful conjurer to direct it. It is volatile- you know this! This cannot be the first time the Witch has used it. It is you and your sect, madam, who archive the spells and writings of our religion. It is you who asked for the Seal to secure the temple. And yet you ignored the warnings as to its danger, and failed to retain your control over it through the ceremony. Did you presume, in your arrogance, that your mere presence would be enough to hold it steady? It is not our fault that your ill attention was no match for Alessa Gillespie."

Patricia stared, dumbfounded.

Edwin hesitated but then nodded in understanding. "I will repeat my divination," he explained. "This time, I know what to search for." As he was about to turn, he paused. "Thank you, Seregei." The red-hooded Executioner nodded to him. As Edwin left, the rest of the council regarded the remaining core cult leaders with hesitation. An evil eye seemed to pass between them both.

"Well, seems you've grown some balls," the woman said at last.

"I must go; there is much work to be done in cleaning up after you," Sergei responded, and then departed.

* * *

Heather was running.

The air was clear and black around her, with distant objects fading into endless darkness. High above, low-lying fog glowed with reflected red light. The ground was made of rusted bars, and endless lakes of fire and rusted machinery churned endlessly beneath her. There was noise everywhere. Great metallic bangs and crunches, the sound of metal on flesh and tearing skin, hoots and hollering, roars, moans, screams, groans, and the writhing biological sounds of countless bags of flesh. All around, body-bag-like creatures dangled from ropes that stretched up above her into the infinite. They writhed occasionally, and oozed blood and other fluids, and they looked halfway between noosed men and butterfly chrysalis.

Lying figures, sack babies, gray children, and other similar bags of writhing flesh wiggled around excitedly. Most would dodge out of the way as she sprinted through, and then curiously follow her for a while. They were harriers and opportunists and would certainly dog-pile her if she stopped moving, but alone they weren't directly confrontational or pursuit predators.

Sprinting on all four limbs, something completely new, was just three meters behind her. At its base, it appeared something like an overlarge baby doll, and was perhaps a further development of the spiders she and Alex had fought on their trip to save Elle. The creature had a segmented body like a pose-able wooden mannequin, and a large cherubic head perched on an arched, long, slender neck. Its body was angled downward, and each limb ended in a long scythe-like blade wrapped in bone and tendon.

When Heather had stumbled upon it, it had been swallowing a dog whole, its lower jaw unhinged and grossly distended, its slender throat bulging. She had tried to sneak past it, but its flesh's flayed condition had suddenly given her pause. She realized that the monster was branded in a very regular square grid pattern of deep scars. A flash rippled through Heather's mind, of a similar and very precise vivisection

The monster had noticed her then. Its delighted coo had shaken Heather back out of her memories. She stared up at it in horror as thick, syrupy blood oozed from its wounds... and then _ignited_.

The monster chasing Heather Mason was _on fire_. It squealed delightedly behind her, hot fire crackling in a mane behind it as it bounded excitedly on all four legs. Unlike most of Silent Hill's monsters, it was fast. Heather had eluded it by dashing into alleyways much too small for it, only to have it bound around the entire block at a breakneck pace. It didn't seem able to climb vertically like a spider or balance well on poles or high walls, but it could leap three meters into the air. Defenseless aside from her one pistol, Heather couldn't afford slowing down to face it, and certainly couldn't afford to see how many shots it would take to bring it down.

"Shit!" she breathed as another locked door refused to permit her entry. The thing was heading for her at her, squealing happily, bouncing off walls and railings, crashing through pots and bicycles, and leaving behind splatters of flaming blood.

Heather rolled over the nearest porch railing just as the thing leaped at her. It went soaring over her head and crashed into an open dumpster filled with discarded corpses. Heather rolled to her feet, pointed her gun at the dumpster, aimed for the head, and fired. The baby-monster screamed, a large hole opening up in its head. It whirled towards her, mane flaming hotter, and lunged. Heather fired again, and again. The creature screamed, gurgled, and then face-planted into the ground, rolling and skidding to a halt. The flames went out almost instantly.

Heather took a deep breath, but she didn't have time to rest. The hell around her was a constant, writhing ocean of bodies. She could already see curious mannequins and other things wandering nearer to her. As she got ready to start running again and cursed the tiredness of her legs, Heather heard a curious gurgle. She turned around just in time to see the second of the baby-faced creatures ignite as it was leaning over her from atop the porch. Heather stumbled backwards, lifting her pistol with the knowledge that she did _not_ have enough ammo loaded. It lunged.

There was a deep, rattling bellow near her, like the deep creak of metal far below the earth or the horn of a massive ship. Something silvery spun through the air like a curtain of steel, fast, sudden and graceful. The baby-faced monster did not make a sound. The force of the silvery hit sent the monster's torso upwards through the air, careening over Heather's head and falling to the ground behind with a grotesque slap. The lower half- a clean division- splattered into the ground before her.

For a moment, all was still and silent. Heather stared down at the sizzling flesh before her, numb. Then she lifted her head and looked to the side.

Standing just a few feet away was a Pyramid Thing. Her Pyramid Thing? As seemed to be typical of Heather's experience with Red God monsters, the first thing she registered was just how _huge_ it was. It was holding its enormous knife upright, as if the ridiculously over-sized weapon were no more than an elegant falchion, thick muscles bulging like overstuffed pillows encased in jaundiced white leather.

Run.

As Heather stared, its tongue eased out from beneath its helmet and writhed curiously through the air. A moment later, the tongue retracted and the monster shifted its grip on the knife and let the tip sink to the ground with a dull 'tink.'

Silence. Stillness.

Heather's eyes roved over the monster, trying to place it. At first, it was hard to notice anything but the blood-encrusted red helm and the long butcher's smock. But then she observed fresh white scars in a spiderweb over its skin. She recognized some of the wounds, particularly a long and ugly gash in the right shoulder. Her eyes rounded and she took in a shuddering breath.

"You're _mine_," she realized, taking a hesitant step towards the creature. Then she recalled that it was holding a knife taller than she was, and that 'her' Pyramid thing had been utterly incapacitated only moments ago. She swallowed hard. "Pyramid Thing?" she asked it.

The creature didn't budge a muscle, still focused on the corpse. She hesitated.

"Red Pyramid? Monster?"

Silence. Stillness.

"...Samael?"

He stirred, turning his helmet towards her. Heather frowned, taking a hesitant step backwards, because suddenly her monster felt different. A dreamlike certainty overcame her; this monster was _not_ protecting her. He was defining his territory, laying claim to his prey, but _never_ did he protect. A fierce and violent thing watched her through that helm, something almost... _intelligent_. A darkness radiated out from him, a malevolence she hadn't detected whilst he was bleeding out helplessly on the floor of Alessa's Toluca Lighthouse.

But this _was_ her monster, she was sure. And the more she thought about it, the more she remembered how _he_ had tried to follow her around the Lighthouse, and the gentle feeling of his dry tongue as he lapped tears from her face. The predatory way he was currently watching her served as a warning, but she stepped forward and slowly lifted her hands to his freshly healed wounds. His skin was as fire; his heartbeat like thunder. She looked up at the wickedly pointed helmet and then gingerly touched its left facet. "Are you okay?" she asked him.

A low, deep, dangerous rumble answered her.

A moment of silence passed in which Heather watched the red-crested helmet. Then her shoulders sagged and she stepped forward, pressing herself into the monstrous part-god and flinging her arms tightly around his waist. "You're not a doll," she mumbled. "You're like Valtiel. I call you 'him,' not 'it.'" Then she smothered her face into its abdomen. "Thank you." She felt his fingers at her throat, and understood the thin line she was on. "They call you 'demon,'" she mumbled in acknowledgement of the touch. "I don't know why you saved me, and I realize that might be because I'm in even _more_ trouble...but just... just... thank you."

Heather heard a soft jaguar growl.

She tore backwards from the Red Pyramid, looking around frantically. If she'd been thinking rationally, she'd've been pleased and impressed to note that the monster had not held onto her neck. Searching for the source of the growl, Heather scanned the buildings around her, the various windows and towers of rust... There was a skittering sound in the distance, but that could have been anything. A shudder passed through her, and her brows furrowed over her eyes.

"Valtiel..." she mumbled helplessly. It _could_ have been him, or it could have just been her imagination playing tricks on her with all the sounds in the background. And what did it matter? Even if she did destroy Xipe, it wouldn't change the fact that Valtiel wasn't real, and that he could never be real in the sense Heather truly needed him to be. He—and the Red Pyramid behind her—were only two things: Heather's psychology made flesh; and cult religion. The former was fake, and the latter was lethal to her. She couldn't 'save' them. Maybe she could save something like Walter. Maybe. But Valtiel? A Pyramid monster? _Never_. And neither Harry nor Alex had the luxury of being a semi-immortal psychic.

Heather squeezed her eyes shut. She was starting to realize what Kaufmann had meant. No matter what happened now, Heather Mason had lost things that could not be replaced. Although killing Edwin would save her and her friends, it wasn't going to bring anyone _back_. No amount of fighting could save Alex Shepherd. Heather slumped, her face contorting with pain. The things she cared to save most were already lost to her. She was hit by a 'feeling' of sudden numbness, a lack of feeling. Trauma had caused her pain receptors to shut down. It almost made her incapable of feeling fear for her friends. How could she feel fear when her greatest fears had already happened? Almost. She thought of Travis Grady, James Sunderland, Henry Townshend.

"Fuck, Alex," she mumbled, "it's my fault. Silent Hill even _warned_ me, and I led you right into that trap..."

Heather Mason had lost her Seal of the Metatron, and she had all but forgotten the violent, intelligent and supernaturally imbued executioner standing just beside her. Then an arm as thick as her thigh suddenly draped itself in front of her, seized her across the chest, and then hauled her backwards. He pressed her firmly back into a leather apron and a wall of abdominal muscles, and skin that blazed with heat. The tip of a crimson helmet dipped low in front of her, shielding out the world as the monster bent double over her; and there was a loud and hair-raising shriek as the heavy blade was heaved about and suddenly came to encircle her side and legs.

Heather Mason was very still and very quiet for a long moment. When she could move again, it was because a long dry tongue was wiping salty tears from her face. She wrapped her arms around the one that was holding her, pushed her face into the shoulder, and started to weep.

_P-please don't leave me..._

_Please._

_Please don't leave me. Please help me. Please._

_Please help me find my Valtiel..._


	38. Social Skills

Thud. Thud. _Shriek..._

The sounds which had tormented James Sunderland and Alex Shepherd were now Heather Mason's greatest comfort. As she walked—slowly and patiently—the sounds were proof Samael hadn't disappeared on her. Now and then she looked back at him, at the way the red hell fire of night silhouetted him and gleamed off his helm. The sight made her smile more than once. The duo was making their way through the town, and Heather had managed to find a number of important supplies so far; not the least of which was a stash of ammo.

"I wonder if I'm psychologically unwell," she murmured softly back to the monster, pausing to let it catch up. "I don't think its normal to feel ecstatic that a giant demon is following me around." His sword slid painfully after him. The high pitched shriek of metal on metal was enough to make the hair on the back of Heather's neck stand on end; but the noise was enough to send other monsters scurrying in all directions. Nothing had come within a hundred meters of Heather Mason since the Red Pyramid had arrived on the scene. Despite the fact that he was clearly following her, he didn't look at her as she spoke. He remained staring blankly ahead. He may have been listening, or he may have been disinterested; he may have been protecting her, or he may simply have been ferrying her to her next soul-devouring pit stop.

"You don't talk much do you?" she joked. The Pyramid did not respond.

Ah, well. 'Ferrying' was pretty much what Valtiel had been doing and Heather had... Heather had ended up adoring Valtiel. She sighed suddenly, realizing how crazy her situation was getting: She was talking to a monster that either was extremely conflicted or else leading her from trial to trial in the hopes of destroying her. Bah, but if she thought like that, her thoughts would start to slip and her interpretation of events would starting to spin around in unhealthy loops. Even now Heather suddenly felt a depressive haze settling down on her, and it was only just shy of six o'clock in the evening.

"If I keep thinking like this I'm going to fall off into an endless pit of, "But what if?"" she muttered to herself, trying to keep her morale high. Then she took in a slow, deep breath and then started walking again. After a moment she kept talking aloud to herself, using the sound of her voice to help anchor her feelings:

"Alex said the way I feel, the way I act... the... the instincts I have..." she trailed off with a choked noise. Woops. So much for keeping morale high. The Pyramid Thing finally looked at her, but she didn't notice as she was no longer looking back at it.

Remembering Alex was going to be hard for a long time. But each time she said his name aloud, the ensuing pain seemed to numb her just a little further, making life just a bit more bearable. After a moment she tried to continue with her previous thought. "Alex..." she recalled sitting with him over the pit of monsters, "he wanted me to believe... that nothing was really _wrong _with me. That I wouldn't get to be normal or live a normal life, but that all the weird Alessa shit was just... was just part of me. An important part. A part I couldn't ignore because it was all I could use to save myself..."

The Pyramid Monster came up behind her and paused as well, completely absorbed in watching her. Heather was quiet and still a long moment. At long last she turned and looked up at the monster, surprised to see he was so focused on her.

"Can you take me straight to Valtiel?" she asked him. And as she said the words aloud, Heather realized she had wanted to ask it of him when he's first hugged her. The question hung in the air like a knife. A long silence passed between them, though the ambiance of the Silent Hill night provided plenty of background noise. Demon and survivor held eachother's gaze. Then at long last the monster began to move. With a heave of his sword he diverted around her right side, and began walking in a new direction. Heather jumped at the sound of metal on metal, and then hurried after him.

* * *

Heather knew that something in the grand Silent Hill plan was off track when she realized she couldn't recognize any landmarks. In her head she could plot the course that the Pyramid Monster had taken, but she was starting to realize that by now, traveling in a straight line, they ought to have walked straight through or at least beside several recognizable buildings. The darkness seemed to be closing in around her, dimming her flashlight. The hellish red glow dimmed to almost nothing, and then the ambient light began to grow brighter. She could see buildings now, but they were not town buildings. All around her sprawled bridges of rust and grime, a metropolis of rust and pain.

_The hell? This is like I'm already deep in the belly of this place. But I haven't gone down a set of stairs._

This wasn't her imagination. Heather couldn't recognize _anything_. There were no trees, no buildings. The last tatters of asphalt that marked a road had disappeared. It appeared that the Pyramid Monster hadn't obeyed the laws of physics when he'd picked a direction to head in. This was neither north, south, east, or west from where she'd started; this had been completely non-euclidean.

_That makes sense. It's not like half the spaces here conform to the laws of physics._

True. But this was the first time she'd had any input on how things distorted. As she looked around, trying to get her bearings, she saw unidentifiable shapes churning and writhing in the darkness. Heather paused for a moment, shining her flashlight on them, but it seemed as if they refused to be properly illuminated. The shapes were dark, tar-like, writhing. She frowned, thinking of Alessa and Walter's monstrous form. Unwillingly, she thought of her inability to save her father from Impotence.

Heather stepped forward, trying to get a better look. Somewhere behind her a low fog-horn-like noise sounded. It took Heather a moment of startled confusion to realize the sound came from her Pyramid Monster, and as she turned around she saw that he had gotten _quite_ some distance away from her, and that writhing black tendrils were slithering over the ground between them. Her Red Pyramid had neither stopped walking nor turned around to retrieve her; no doubt he'd done her a courtesy just in alerting her to the situation.

Heather swore and bolted forward. The writhing black things grabbed at her legs and she tried to dodge their nips and snaps. It wasn't easy. Suddenly the Red Pyramid's ponderous gait was too fast. The ambient light in her surroundings was starting to fade; she could see less and less outside of the range of her flashlight. Her heart was racing. Something grabbed her ankle and she fell to her knees. It took her a moment to yank herself free, and then other globular things were reaching for her arms, her legs. Those she shook off. What she _couldn't_ shake was the glob that suddenly grabbed at her head.

A flash of memory rippled through Heather's mind then, something she shouldn't have remembered right then and immediately regretted. Her knees went weak as she recalled walking into a room with a large mirror and staring baffled at its darkening surface. The mirror had given her nearly sixty seconds to abandon curiosity and turn away. But watching that mirrored world turn bloodier and bloodier while the real world had stayed clean seemed fascinating and relatively harmless. How wrong she'd been when, moments later, she'd traded places with the trapped girl on the other side of the glass.

She suspected Valtiel had 'fixed' that mistake, and that was why Heather hadn't remembered it until just now. Well, something similar had just happened again.

"God_damn_ it!" Heather shouted as she came back to herself, tearing her head free from one of the globs and trying to drag herself forward. She could feel gobs all over her, grabbing at her, smothering her, trying to _melt _her. That damn memory had left her gaping stupidly at the black tar as it had wrapped itself around her. Now everything was pitch black. There was gunk on her face, over her flashlight, and her world was without light. Somewhere very far ahead of her, she heard a long, low groan again. A beacon, but not one that would be turning back for her. Pyramid Things were fueled by hatred, and this one wasn't going to save her from her own feelings of inadequacy. Fine. She didn't need it to.

"I am Heather fucking Mason!" she half bellowed into the darkness. "I'll rescue myself!" She smeared gunk off her flashlight and then staggered to her feet, fighting her way forward as oily gobs grabbed at her hair, her legs, her arms. She slapped grasping black ooze away from her. She was going to get out of this shit herself.

_"That's a lie," _she heard a soft voice say. Heather's eyes opened wide and she spun around. She came face to face with the disembodied head of Alessa Gillespie, suspended in a wall of writhing black slime.

"The fuck it is," she whispered, staggering backwards.

"You're deluding yourself," Alessa reemphasized in a smug tone. "You've always needed people. Harry, Kaufmann... Didn't Valtiel revived you multiple times? You've had to spend lives to stay alive yourself. Some of them live- through luck, mostly. But you've always needed help. You'd have hardly made it this far on your own. It's hopeless. Just take them all down with you."

"Fuck _you_," Heather snarled, pulling back from the apparition. "You're a _memory_! You don't even _exist_ anymore!"

"That's like saying a nuclear warhead doesn't exist after it's detonated," Alessa noted, "but radiation's everywhere." A very cat-like smile played over her face. "So many things you don't want to remember... You're deluding yourself, forgetting what you really need to be doing. You have a line to _it_ right here, you can end it all _right now_. You can implode this sick twisted nightmare.

Heather blinked, eyes narrowing. "The Pyramid Thing?" she asked, then scowled as she remembered Walter's words. "The hell is _wrong_ with you!? I'm not _dying_ here just to get vengeance on the cult!"

Alessa's face darkened. "You're a coward, and you're hiding from the truth," the girl told her. "You're the only thing that can end this place. Because you're _one_ of them. You're like Claudia, like mother, you're _me_, and you can _make_ him do it. _That_ one will take any leash he must for his 'justice'. Let him end it! It can at least save those you care about outside."

"I didn't get stuck in here to fulfill your masochistic death wish," Heather hissed, not exactly sure what Alessa wanted her to do, but knowing that it meant inciting the Executioner God to destroy both Heather and Silent Hill.

"It's the only way," Alessa reminded her.

"Stop _saying_ that!" Heather snarled, anchoring her mind in the knowledge that an avatar of that very Executioner Diety was abstaining from harming her. "You, Walter, Edwin, Claudia- stop claiming your beliefs are TRUTH. No one has the slightest clue how this all really works, and y_ou're not even real!_"

Alessa frowned. "You can't hide from reality."

The world went black

* * *

Alex had always tried to protect her.

It was after the fight with Impotence. Edwin had found them, but they weren't going down without a fight. They had nothing on hand but the surgical knives on the tables around them, but that wasn't going to keep them from trying. In fact, they were moving faster and more sychronized than they ever had in their lives. They were high on adrenaline and emotional fuel. The cultists couldn't kill them or use guns. They fought tooth and nail, plowing their way through their enemies, fighting towards one of the doorways.

Henry had always said that Heather was the strongest of them, hadn't he? Well. He was wrong. Dead wrong. On that day, in that place, her strength gave out. Heather tripped over the scattered remains of what once had been Dhalia Gillespie. She looked at the woman in horror and then, inevitably, her eyes were drawn to the slump where Harry Mason was woven in to Impotence's torn flesh. She sat there numb, a sitting duck. She did the same thing she'd one done in front of that mirror, and that she'd later do surrounded by black tendrils. She _stared, _mortified and in awe of Silent Hill's disgusting darkness.

In a second, scrolls were all around her, binding her arms and legs tight against her. Alex was at the exit. Alex could get out.

He came back for her. The last thing she remembered seeing before Xipe throttled her into unconsciousness was him turning back from the door.

Silent Hill was never going to let Heather leave. She carried too much guilt. She was going to die there. Silent Hill had broken her will when they'd killed him and... and Alessa was just rubbing it in. She just wanted to make sure Heather _knew_, that she was sure the situation was hopeless, that she was sure Samael's destructive nature was the only route to freedom.

_Live_.

"ALEX! ALEX! ALEEEXXX!"

* * *

Heather howled and dashed forward, slamming her fist straight into where she face had appeared. It laughed at her and she grabbed at it, tearing her fingers into its skin, pulling it and the black slime apart.

"FUCK YOU!" she screamed, tears pouring down her face, shoving through the forest of dense black tar. "I'm not dying here, not for this, not in this paltry stupid little tar trap! He believed in me, they believe in me, they all believe in me and I am _real_ and you're _not_! If I'm going to die it's not going to be to _myself_!" She pushed through them, forced them apart. Something like rage, but more similar to _passion_ coursed through her. It drove her forward with mental images of her friends, her family, her dad, her...

"I'm not broken! I'm not weak, I'm not going CRAZY!" she roared into them, pushing further and further and further. "I I'm NOT going to break for you, I'm not going to sit here and dissolve away at the feet of nothing more than my leftover _nightmares_!"

The tendrils shrunk back. They parted, made room, let light through. They opened up into a pathway of metal, some hellish place that at least had roof, walls, and ceiling. She heaved towards it, fighting her way through. Black tendrils sizzled, rippled away from her, writhed and withered. "I don't need to be saved! I'll do it for them! I'll do it for HIM, and for me, and Henry and- LET GO OF ME!"

The tendrils grabbed at her, smothering out the light and knocking her back to her knees.

"LET! GO! OF! ME!"

A High-pitched shriek of a child echoed out from her in a boom of heat, and then the tendrils were flying back from her, disappearing into metal, grime, rust, and gears. Heather staggered, but nothing renewed the assault. She heard the ambiance of the hellscape. Lights were bright again. Heather shuddered and took in a long, slow breath. She wanted to sit down and have a long, hard cry, but there wasn't time. She had to push that away till there was time to mourn. At least she could try and find comfort in one thing: Alex was right. Heather had what it took to win.

She heard heavy booming footsteps and the shriek of metal on metal. Rubbing tears from her face, she looked up to see her Pyramid Monster standing over her, helmet shifting slightly as he observed her condition. Heather half-chuckled, half-sobbed. "No big. Myself is just trying to kill me," she explained to him. Then her expression sobered when she realized she'd just referred to Alessa with the first person pronoun, 'myself.' She made a face and then slowly clambered to her feet. The Pyramid Thing surprised her by reaching forward to grab her arm, and he pulled her firmly to a standing position.

Heather winced and then rubbed her arm when he released her. "Um... Thank you. Thank you for... for waiting for me..." The monster said nothing, watching her as she dusted herself off. "I guess she's not really me," she decided at last. "But she's still connected to me, and she's one awfully screwed up bitch of a leftover."

The Pyramid Monster rumbled. Heather glanced back up at it couldn't help but smile, wiping her face of partially dried tears. "Don't worry. You're not like her. You're the nice type of leftovers; the sort that heats up well in the microwave and keeps for days without losing its flavor." If Alessa were a living thing, this conversation would have driven her batty. There Heather stood, directly beside an incarnation of the entity who could unleash Ragnarok on Silent Hill, and she was _teasing_ him.

The monster continued to stare at her. Then, after a long moment, Heather was treated to the sorrow-banishing delight of watching the monster tilt his head curiously to the side. She beamed at him, at this acknowledgement that he understood her, that he was real, that he could feel confusion, that he wasn't just smoke and anger like the Memory of Alessa. At least that's what she _believed_.

"Yeah, well," she continued to tease, her voice falling into a cocksure tone. "Sorrow doesn't get you through the day, does it? That was par for the course for Silent Hill. Hey. You led me through that on purpose." It wasn't a question, and she gave him a reproachful look.

The monster continued to stare.

Heather rolled her eyes. "Whatever, asshole. I'm glad to see you waited anyways. Thank you."

An awkward silence followed for a moment. Then the Pyramid monster turned to begin walking again. As he did so, however, he paused midway and tilted his head to 'look' over his shoulder at her. There he waited for her to catch up. The Mason girl blinked but then hurried up to his side. He waited till she had reached him before starting to walk. Heather stayed well within arm reach of him. She glanced up at the red helmet once or twice. "Samael?" A slightly hostile growl and a sharp toss of the helmet tip answered her. Heather blinked. Was that name provoking him? But he _recognized_ it, and he didn't recognize 'Red Pyramid.'

She decided not to ask him about what the Memory of Alessa had been talking about.

They walked for another fifteen minutes in silence, descending through several different hellscapes till at last they had come to a jungle of grated catacombs. At long last the Pyramid monster paused before a long fenced bridge that led to a single elevator shaft. He regarded the bridge for a moment, then lifted up his blade in both hands and jammed the tip vertically into the earth. There he waited, resting both hands on the thick leather handle.

Heather blinked at him, glanced down the narrow bridge, and then looked up at his helmet.

"You can't go any further?" she asked him. He didn't respond. "Will you be here when I get back?" Silence. Heather hesitated. "Red..." Silence. "Pyramid Thing?" No answer. "..._Samael?_"

His fingers clenched and a low rumble worked its way from beneath his helmet. Heather tilted her head to the side, observing him and wondering why his name always provoked a hostile response. It _was_ his, she was sure of it; as sure as she'd known the spider monster who'd led to Alex Shepherd's downfall had been called 'Impotence.'

She sighed, not knowing what the problem was. "Please don't just disappear on me, Samael..."

Hearing it the second time in the same conversation didn't seem to provoke him as much as the first; he gave a slightly more neutral rumble, and then stared straight ahead at the elevator. Heather grimaced and stepped closer to him for a moment. She lifted a hand and traced gently over one of the larger scars left on his skin. then, with a deep breath, she turned and headed onward to find if the Pyramid Thing had indeed led her to Valtiel.


	39. Valtiel

As Heather descended down the elevator, she was again hit by the sensation that she had somehow _cheated_. As if she were on a child's playground and climbing up the slide instead of the ladder. It felt as if space had distorted slightly, and although the elevator was heading downward, she doubted her senses could convey to her an accurate sense of Silent Hill's geometry.

At the bottom of the elevator she found herself in an uncovered wasteland of pipes and cages. Here and there, ominous heavy blocks of metal cut out the sky and provided dark alcoves for monstrous things to hide in. At first she wondered which way to walk, but something instinctive drew her off to the left.

_Sometimes its hard to recognize the difference between 'being tricked' and 'instinct,' _she thought to herself, and then she went rigid when rounding a corner of pipes yielded a pack of five hounds. As quietly as could be, she ducked back around the corner. Apparently the dogs hadn't noticed her. Heather took in several long, steadying breathes. She watched her surroundings carefully and then tiptoed away from her near death experience.

_I need a real weapon_ _. I'm at the mercy of Silent Hill and the only thing that stood between me and death before was that Red Pyramid and luck. Without Samael, I've got nothing but a sidearm; not even a wrench or hammer or crowbar. I'm hosed if I don't pay more attention._

Not for the first time, she desperately wanted her katana back. A crowbar would suffice, she thought, permitting her to pay homage to Gordon Freeman. But Alas; she had nothing.

Heather tried to pay more careful attention to the pull she felt leading her through the wasteland. She wagered it was tugging her down under one of the overhangs, where the atmosphere was less apocalyptic and more sewer-like. She picked her path slowly, spying around corners before committing to them and hunkering down to peer between gaps the pipes.

At one point she was forced to walk past a series of low-lying body bags that were suspended on an overhead pipe. They unnerved her, and she did everything she could not to touch them. The last of the bags was suspended too close to the wall, and try as she might she couldn't squeeze past without touching it. After fussing over the decision she bolted past it, disturbing it and causing it to wriggle grotesquely. Then a seam split open down its vertical center, and a dozen arms sprung out from the interior to reach for her, lacerated and bloody fingers grasping uncoordinated at the air.

She was, thankfully, already out of its reach. Looking back at it in disgust, Heather noticed a throbbing heart wrapped around the epicenter of the arms, surrounded by a cage of sturdy ribs and gnashing teeth. _Par for the course_. Heather made sure the monster was unable to reach her and then turned away and kept walking. After a bit, it closed back up behind her.

As she descended under one of the overhangs she found herself in an enclosed space, very much like the sewer or prison she had imagined. There was much less room to pick her path or maneuver here, despite the winding array of confusing pipes and passageways. Heather frowned at yet another branching side passage. Silent Hill had always seemed remarkably... well... _linear_ on her previous visits. Even on the half-cheated mission to save Elle had been a linear trial from the moment they'd first been separated to the time in which they'd emerged in the central temple. Now things were suddenly different, spontaneous, confusing.

A high pitched squeaking assailed her ears, and Heather bolted forward in alarm. She had just emerged into a long chamber with a thick chain-link fence caging off the majority of the space. On the other side, partially occluded in darkness was-!

"Valtiel..." she whispered, stopping short. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Then she took another step forward. "Valtiel!"

Metatron was indeed there. He stood in all his terrible glory, cloaked in grime and wearing his dubious butcher's smock. He was pressed up against a pillar and turning a large red valve. Squeak, squeak, squeak. A symbol of rebirth, of cycles, of changes, and of order. Samael had just created a disturbance; Valtiel was putting things back on track. He did not respond to Heather's voice or to any other stimuli. His puppet-like motions were constant and undisturbed; cyclic.

Heather swallowed hard, slowly walking up to the chain links. Her breath came in hard pants after her short sprint and given her mental state. Her fingers wrung the handle of her gun nervously. Part of her was on the verge of tears. It wanted to curl up and cry until the world faded away. Another part, a stronger part, had already lived through this madness once already, and was determined to survive it once again.

On the other side of the fence, the creature kept turning the valve. She adjusted the flashlight under her shoulder so that it alighted on his darkened frame, casting some illumination on his dirty smock and leathery head, which was twitching in rapid convulsions. This was definitely him.

Heather half gagged, half choked on a sudden rush of emotion. "Valtiel?"

Again the metatron did not respond. He just kept turning the valve. His silence was agonizing, and Heather shuddered, eyes wide.

"V-Valtiel!" she pled, and lifted a hand to grasp numbly at the chain links. He didn't move. "Valtiel, look at me!"

Nothing.

Was this the same Valtiel that had made cookies with her? Who had held her at night and helped her sleep? Or had Silent Hill simply replaced him with another instance of the same exact 'kind' of monster, birthed from the same origin diety? Did her Valtiel exist at all? Had he ever? Or had he been as transient as a flame; put out and reignited from the same candle, but not_ ever_ the _same_ flame as before.

Heather sagged against the chain links, her face a mask of despair and horror. She stared at the creature she had shared so many months of her life with. It was _Valtiel_, either way, real or unreal, hers or not hers. The brief quiet before the storm was over, and Silent Hill had reclaimed what belonged to it. Metatron was a cog in the supernatural machine once more, just another facet of an endlessly-spiraling mind-fuck.

Heather slid down to her knees against the fence, staring helplessly out at nothing. Nothing she had done had mattered. The time she'd spent with him hadn't mattered. Silent Hill had birthed this thing, permitted her to care about it, and then stolen it back. He didn't exist. He wasn't real. He had no will. It was almost worse than when they'd killed her father. At least she knew she'd actually _had_ him, that he'd been _real_, that he'd _loved _her. She ducked her head and covered it, and began to shake.

Heather had never been harmed while in Valtiel's presence, and she doubted Silent Hill would change that now. For all its nonsense, the town had a strange code to it. As long as she could see or hear the metatron, she was safe. She could cry, and nothing would devour her. She could pour our her hatred and her pain and succumb to the truth that she would always be alone, and then pick herself up and go on fighting, and maybe defeat this hell for good. She'd survive.

That wasn't enough.

That wasn't fair. That wasn't enough.

It wasn't- it wasn't- Alex. Valtiel. Tears brimmed in her eyes because she was _alone_. And hell, Alex had practically died because Heather had been unable to let her imaginary idea of Valtiel go. If she'd just given up, if she'd walked away- the thing was a faceless, burnt, and terrifying surreal _monster_! What was wrong with her!? She'd gotten Alex killed! She'd gotten Alex killed for something that wasn't even-_  
_

An idea, an insane and important idea, rushed over her. Heather lifted her head and then suddenly grabbed the flashlight from under her shoulder and pulled it free. She pointed it at the laboring metatron, and in the dim lighting she managed to catch sight of his gloves as they worked the heavy valve wheel. Although they were caked in gore and rust, the gloves he wore were just barely identifiable by the seam-work she'd done on the center fingers.

For a long moment she stared at Valtiel in silence; she watched each time as the valve turned, as his hand was occluded behind his frame and then revealed. Each time she saw the center seam, and noted that the gloves were leather instead of linen. The gloves. The _gloves_. She had given him those gloves, she had restitched the fingers _specifically_ so that his malformed hands would fit. This... this _was her Valitel!_ This wasn't some shade or copy or ghost- this was the same physical entity that hated spicy candies and loved Kit-Kat bars.

A mirror? _Only_ a mirror? A doll? If he was only a mirror _why had purging him left the gloves?!_

_Have Faith. In what?!_

"No," she snarled suddenly, clawing at the chain fence. She glared at the unfeeling angel. "No. You're _mine_, do you hear me?" she whispered, her voice low.

He didn't stir, but he didn't need to. Heather felt a fire, a certainty growing within her. She remembered painting with the Pyramid Monster's blood over the mirror in Toluca Lakehouse, and her eyes flamed with sudden conviction. Heather wasn't powerless. She'd summoned the Red Pyramid, she'd controlled the sack babies, she'd opened up a locked door, she'd-she'd-

"You're mine," she growled. "You're mine. I _made_ you mine. You came and found me, you stayed with me, you watched over me. It wasn't for the god inside me; You came for me and me alone! You weren't aloof, you didn't ignore me. You held me when I cried, you killed anything that tried to hurt me. You made me stronger, healed my mind!."

He kept turning the valve.

"I-I made you those gloves!" she shouted. Then her voice dropped as her mind scrambled to remember the details. "I bought them at a high-end retail closeout store. They're made of red, deer leather. I sewed the fingers together with black thread. Your old gloves didn't have those marks, Valtiel! I'd recognize you anywhere, and I know you, and you're _him_, you're_ mine_, you're the bogeyman who kissed my face and saved Elle for me! Angel! _Angel_!"

Nothing but the squeaking of rusty pipes. She shoved herself up against the links. As ferocious and overwhelmed as she was, she needed something. Some sign, however small, that she was reaching him.

It doesn't matter that you're part of their beliefs, or that you were made by their god! _She can't have you back!_ I've marked you with those gloves, branded you like the symbols on your shoulders, because you're mine!"

Tears dripped down her cheeks as the valves continued to turn.

"I know why I'm here! Wanting to end the cult was never enough to suck me in before, but you- You will _always_ be mine! Even if they're right, even if I can't get you back, even if I never got to see you again, I'd always remember how much I love you; I'd always remember how selflessly you love me!"

The squeaking halted. The world was suddenly oppressively quiet. On the other side of the chain-link fence, Valtiel had gone very still, and was no longer turning the valve. He did not even twitch.

Heather shuddered "I know why I'm here," she whispered again. "It's not just to kill Edwin, its not just to avenge Alex... I'm stuck here cause I won't let go of you. Because Silent Hill judges that a delusion. You're the manifestation of a _demigod_! I'm insane! But I _know_ better than Alessa, and I do _not_ share the cult's beliefs. I'm not leaving you here. I'm not _forgetting_ you! I cut the laces on your back for the first time in your life and I washed away the grime from this place, and I'll do it again and again and again however many times I get sucked in! I will throw everything I have into getting you out, I will try as hard and stupidly as I can, because you're all I have left to save! There's nothing in the world as twisted, insane, and adorable as you, and if there's even the slightest most remote possibility that I can get you out then I have to _try_!"_  
_

After a long moment, he began turning the valve again. Heather breathed in and out slowly, and then she stood and tucked her pistol into her waist-belt. When she looked behind her, she saw that the path had closed. Another had opened, a staircase heading back up to her fate. When she'd composed herself she headed towards it. She looked back at the metatron just before she took the first stair.

"I love you, Valtiel," she promised the entity that had become her friend, her companion; he who had protected her, and guarded her, and brought back to life Elle Holloway. Then she looked away with a shudder because with those dice cast, with those words uttered, she was going to have to pull off a miracle not to lose her mind in Silent Hill. "I guess that's all I know _how_ to have faith in." Then she headed upwards. First thing first; she had to destroy Xipe. And for that she had to destroy Edwin.

Bastard had _that_ one coming.


	40. I Accidentally the Whole Heather

Heather's katana.

Travis held it now as if it were both a shovel and a sacred relic. As mundane and utilitarian as his axe had once been; and also a vital tool for withstanding the forces of hell. He had been required to go into the antique shop alone to purchase the weapon, as any of the other party members would surely have been driven out. Now, group stood grim-faced around the entrance to Silent Hill's old elementary school, watching as Murphy forced the lock open almost casually.

Laura looked around from face to face and then shook her head and snickered. She got a few questioning looks and then felt like she had to explain herself. "We're breaking into a _school. _And we're _armed_. Do you guys watch the news? This would look terrible if we were caught." She got slightly blank looks in exchange, and so rolled her eyes at all those assembled. "Only _this_ 'family' could find breaking into buildings to hide swords, swords we're hoping will get teleported to hell, normal."

Travis glanced at the girl and then at James. "Maybe she should stay at home next time," he suggested.

"Hey!" Laura pouted.

James was looking ill again. His skin had a slightly greenish pallor and he'd bundled up tightly in his winter coat. Travis frowned. "Are you okay?" he asked sympathetically, reaching over to grasp the other man's shoulder.

"You weren't here," James managed weakly, "or maybe you'd feel it too now."

"Weren't here for... for the meeting with Walter?" Travis guessed solemnly.

James nodded. "I still feel like I'm... Like I'm slightly transparent. Not all here. Like I can hear things from somewhere else, but I can't make them out and they're all muffled."

Murphy glanced up in alarm at them as he opened the school door. "You don't think... could part of you be in Silent Hill?" he asked hoarsely. Henry glanced at the convict and his brows furrowed upward in curiosity. Though no one else picked up on Murphy's stress- not even Travis- Henry could easily interpret the subtleties. He imagined one day soon the Bestiary would feature a new boogieman monster in the same vein as Red Pyramids and Butchers.

"It's not like that," James decided. "But I feel like... like I've been gutted and not everything's been put back in just yet... Maybe that's not the best way of saying it. If Heather were here she'd know how to interpret it..." After a moment, the blonde man looked to Henry.

Henry blinked once, then twice, then seemed to realized he was being asked for insight. He looked off in the distance for a moment, and then looked to Travis, Murphy, and finally James.

"Walter's tied to the Executioner deity of Silent Hill," Henry said slowly. "The same one your demons resembled. You are probably still getting feedback from Silent Hill because of the telepathic 'bridge' he made to contact her."

Douglass made a face. All the paranormal magic tended to make his head spin. When confronted with a situation- quick, giant worm trying to eat you!- he could survive better than most men who'd been through war zones. He was well-informed, thought quick on his feet for an old man, and could compartmentalize his thoughts to deal with present dangers instead of worrying about the impossibility of giant worms. But when it came to understanding the _why_ behind how Silent Hill worked, well... he was on the low end of the skill pool.

Travis and Murphy were also men of action, but each of them had been forced to dig into the fabric of Silent Hill to survive. Travis had volunteered not to leave the town; Murphy had felt like Silent Hill was some sadistic, omniscient director waiting to see if they could guess the screen play he'd written out. They looked back at Henry with almost strangled expressions, perturbed by his words.

"So Silent Hill has a hook in him?" Travis asked. "And she could hook any of us."

"We need to stick together," Douglass confirmed. "If one of us has a meltdown they're going to need everyone else close about them to work them out of it."

"Actually I believe James's case is specific," Henry interrupted. "He is much more at risk."

James' heart sunk but he knew better than to contradict Henry's insight. Douglass whirled on the man. "That so, Sherlock? What makes you think that?"

Henry only glanced at Douglass before looking at James with concern. "It is possible you are getting feedback from Walter or Heather, but I doubt it. It is much more likely that you are getting feedback from _Alex_."

"Alex. Is. Dead."

The group turned to look at Elle, who had been mute up until this very moment. She looked at Henry hard, her brows lowered, her face violently sad. Henry tilted his head to the side. "So are Walter, Joshua, Mary, and Harry Mason. All four have been encountered therein."

"ALEX IS DEAD!" Elle shouted. "Shut the fuck up!"

Henry wasn't sure how to handle this. His normal reaction would have been to clam up and retreat to a corner, but after a moment he looked back to James. "His monster was uncannily similar to yours," he continued, as if Elle hadn't interrupted, "and that's enough in Silent Hill to form a weak link. You are probably getting feedback from one of them, or from his actual remains. Travis and Murphy may be at risk, but you in particular should stay close-"

"FUCK YOU!" Elle screamed, launching herself at the soft-spoken man. Travis had none of that and grabbed the girl bodily before she'd made it two paces. Her fist still passed within inches of Henry's face, and Eileen had to grab on to her other arm before she punched Travis.

"Elle!" Eileen exclaimed.

Henry winced and shrunk a little into himself. "I only wanted to offer a word of caution-"

"Receiver of Wisdom?" Laura intoned, earning a flinch from Eileen and an innocent, wide-eyed expression from Henry. She was amused but also somewhat surly- perhaps slightly hostile- in tone. "So what is it, you've no inner demons of your own? You're like Jesus or something, and you don't have to worry about damnation?"

Henry tilted his head to the side. Was it perhaps that Laura felt James' fear and was moving to defend him? Or was this simply her normal abrasive tone?

"Fuck you!" Elle repeated, her voice cracking, tears streaming down her face. Travis and Eileen were trying to reassure her. Remarkably, it was quiet Murphy coming up and spontaneously hugging the young girl that dissolve her anger. She sagged away from Henry into the convict's arms, and bawled like a child.

"No," Henry answered Laura at last. "I just have the weakest emotions."

Laura blinked, surprised at the blatant admission.

"This makes it difficult for Silent Hill to upset me," he delivered in a soft-spoken deadpan. "It is also the reason Walter selected me as his Receiver of Wisdom. The role afforded me considerable foresight and mobility, but my weak drive made it impossible for me to protect his victims. I would always arrive precisely at the moment they were doomed. This was not coincidence. This was my own will having little to no impact on Silent Hill."

No one could remember Henry speaking for such a length of time before. They watched him with slight horror, as for the very first time he provided insight into what his own nightmares might have stemmed from.

"Travis, or your father would have been able to stop him before his first kill. Only Cynthia's death and Walter's own hesitance, coupled with the time he left me alone with Eileen, gave me enough momentum to affect my future wife's fate. Against Silent Hill mind games, I am almost invulnerable. But I can barely change anything alone, so it doesn't matter."

The gathering was quiet aside from a sobbing Elle and the whispered reassurances of the confused but compassionate individual who was currently reassuring her.

"This is the actual reason I am concerned about Heather now," Henry continued. "The subconscious mind substitutes for coincidence in Silent Hill. It's like a dream: Everything which _appears _random is actually pulled from the mind. So two people as invested in eachother's well-being as Heather and Alex should have been able to protect one another; either they would either die together or not at all, but never would one die _alone_."

Elle was so hysterical she couldn't hear them. Which was probably a good thing; as no one had been given time to explain that Heather and Alex had been a couple.

Henry continued, "The thing that killed him must be human. Edwin, probably, the leader of the cult now. And he has managed to rally an unbelievable wave of mental energy behind him."

"She was paintin' that symbol on the mirror with blood," Travis muttered. "She's desperate. We have to get this sword where she can find it."

"And then what?" Douglass asked, exasperated with how helpless they were. "We're out on the ocean without a paddle!"

Travis shook her head. "Maybe just finding out information and making it available to her from our side will help. Silent Hill is usually filled with mementos that act as clues to puzzles and finding important materials of the main path, but if this man Edwin is as good as Henry assumes, then he doesn't have any weaknesses just lying around on the other side. She's also up the creak without a paddle." Travis nodded, suddenly with more conviction. "We have to find out who this man is and leave the clues for her in the lighthouse. Anything else 'coincidental' we find on the way, we do what we can."

"And what about you?" Douglass asked a little bitter. "Don't you have a way to get to her? Screw what she said; go anyway!"

Travis stiffened but Henry shook his head rapidly. "That would work if it were James or you who were trapped inside. That worked for Elle. That won't work for Heather."

"Why the hell not!?"

"That place is like a horror movie," Murphy said from where Elle was curled up against his shoulder. "It practically has a script and a director. It knows who the protagonist is, and it'll give them a chance to get a 'good' ending. Everyone else? Just fodder. It would chew us up to torture her on her way to Edwin."

"All these interpretations you guys have are paranoid, crazy and half of them conflict with one another," Laura complained. "You're all just _scared_. None of you know how it really works, or whether you're really in danger or not. You're just so scared to make a move, like there's a house of cards you might knock over. Hell, you guys could all get killed in your sleep by some crazy hobo watching us from the street right now. What makes you think you're safe here, if you're going to be so paranoid about everything else?"

"Laura," James growled, not in the mood to listen to this.

"What? I'm the only one saying the truth: None of you know what to do. You're all clueless, picking at shadows and nits."

"Laura, honey," Eileen tried to stop her, as it was clear to everyone _else_ that if a place was 9/10ths psychology, then lowering group morale was about the worst thing one could do in terms of increasing their positive contribution to Heather's struggles.

"She has a point," Douglass groused.

Elle was still crying. Henry frowned. Eileen started arguing with James, despite the fact that they were technically on the same side of the argument. Laura was close to shouting. Douglass _was_ shouting. Travis massaged his temples and took in a long, slow, breath. He was just about to call them all to order when the door to the school suddenly opened wide behind him. He felt the rush of air and spun about reflexively, drawing Heather's katana partially from its sheathe.

A four year old Walter Sullivan looked up at them nervously, black gunk caking half of his face and dissolving one of his arms into tendrils of oil. Then he turned about and scampered wordlessly into the school.

The members of the group looked to one another. Travis shook his head and then started inward. The rest of the group followed. When Elle wouldn't budge, Murphy heaved her up bridal style and carried her. She did not protest.

* * *

The route back to the surface took an indeterminable amount of time in the hellish endlessness. Heather was subjected to puzzles involving tinker toys and disemboweled baby dolls, and later was forced to walk through a narrow passage with thousands of tiny, fleshy baby arms sprouting out of either wall, grasping at her. They weren't very strong, and once or twice when she bumped into the side they merely kneaded her harmlessly. It didn't change the surreal, disturbed, spiraling sensation that usually accompanied Silent Hill's psychotic dementia.

Why _babies? _she wondered.

An alarming thought occurred to Heather. She had slept with Alex without any contraceptives. Her last birth control pill had been taken previous to coming to Silent Hill. Call her naive, but she had been pretty sure she wasn't going to need them.

Suddenly, Heather felt like she'd been socked in the solar plexus. Had she gotten pregnant? Holy shit. But as she thought about things and counted dates in her head, she realized there was probably no biological explanation for the baby-themed horrors. A basic mental review of high school health and her own cycle revealed that _if _her behavior with Alex was going to yield offspring, then fertilization still hadn't occurred yet, and had been rendered increasingly unlikely by all the abuse she'd suffered since then.

But then again, tenacious sperm could survive in a woman for around five days, and Heather was probably going to ovulate on the very last day of that window. The realization that a part of him was still alive inside of her, waiting for her upcoming ovulation, made her feel weird and nauseous. How did she feel about that? Did she want it to happen? Did she care? Was there a risk of demonic godling conception?

Alex was dead, and had been dead for over forty-eight hours. Shortly before that, they'd spent their very first night of real intimacy together.

Heather gagged and struggled to keep her lungs filled with air and her legs from turning into rubber. Alex was dead, and- and- and... for another day, a few random sets of twenty-three of his chromosomes were going to hang out inside her body. And then either they would die or one- just one- would survive by impregnating her. But, given that she was in Silent Hill, that would probably _still_ go badly in every way imaginable.

This was going to keep hurting. Every day. Every hour. She was going to remember his name, his face, and the fact that he wasn't coming back. Even her dad's death hadn't been this hard. She must have really loved Alex Shepherd.

Heather realized that more of the 'babies' were starting to grow outward from the walls. Their heads had needle-sharp teeth. Sighing in displeasure and pain, Heather hurried forward past their grasping fingertips. They weren't really babies, she thought, they were more the size of small toddlers. As she walked up another staircase, it occurred to her that she might possibly be beneath the elementary school or the orphanage. She wiped her face as she walked, trying to disperse her tears. Then she heard a high-pitched whine of metal and nearly leaped out of her skin.

A massive, helmeted monster was waiting at the top of the stairs. It was her Pyramid Head, and- surprisingly- he hadn't disappeared on her. But now the sight of him, his height enhanced by the staircase, his silhouette dark against the red lights behind him, was intimidating. Heather's thought process, which had already been going down a dark road, suddenly spiraled further. This Red Pyramid existed as a result of Alex's death. She had him now because she didn't have Alex. He was her self-rescue, a potential hazard, and her failure to save her partner, all in one.

The Pyramid stepped forward as she came into view, and his tongue writhed out to taste the air. Apparently he could recognize her by scent, because he made an affirmative grumble and stood backwards, his sword arcing back into a less hostile position. About his feet were the slain corpses of at least five mannequin monsters, their blood oozing down the top step in a slow-moving, little waterfall.

Before she realized it she had sprinted up the last few steps.

The monster lifted a hand reflexively and grabbed at the air she'd just been occupying. He took a step to the side when she collided with him, and then leaned over and looked down at her in bewilderment. His hand remained hovering in the air, twitching, his sword held out wide to avoid impaling her. She was hugging him tightly around his waist.

"I didn't really think you'd still be here," Heather laughed, smothering her face into his abdomen. "When I get home, I am making a line of plushies after you. Like they're teddy bears."

The monstrous helmet tilted to the side in sheer bafflement. Heather smeared her face against him, lifting her head to look up at him and rest her chin on his chest. There were a few relieved tears on her face.

"Thank you," she told him. "I saw Valtiel and.. Thank you." She took a deep, steadying breath and then pulled backwards and smiled up at him. "I'm ready to go forward again."

The Pyramid monster continued to watch her oddly for a moment. Then, no longer affected by the matter, he turned about and began to walk.

He paused and looked over his shoulder to make sure she kept up. Heather sighed. It didn't matter anymore; the Pyramid Head was hers. "Samael?" she asked. He jerked slightly and growled. Heather eyed him critically. "Well what do you want me to call you? You don't respond to anything else. You don't like 'Pyramid Monster,' or 'Boogieman,' or 'Red.' How do you feel about 'Xuchibara'?" He actually whirled on her this time, adding some credence to the idea that he was still very dangerous to her. A sharp roar left the confines of his helmet and he clenched his sword menacingly. Heather crossed her arms over her chest. Why the _hell_ did he respond like that to his own name? She thought for a moment, watching the hostile, ridiculously tall monster. "Valtiel?" HISS! He looked off at something she couldn't see, furious.

Heather decided she probably shouldn't make any more guesses for a bit. Still, she couldn't help herself. "James?" Her monster had the decency to look slightly startled, but he definitely responded to the name. He helmet tip swung a good four inches to point directly at her, and all tension immediately left him. Heather tried again. "Walter," she continued, shifting slightly to the right. The helmeted gaze followed her the instant she uttered Sullivan's name. Neither name felt as right as Samael, but then neither freaked him out either. "Well, _that's _interesting. I think for psychological purposes, however, I'm going to have to avoid calling you after my friends. Henry?" No reaction. "Harry?" Nothing. "Travis?" Again he immediately riveted on her. Well, this was certainly an easy way to find out which of her fellow survivors had self-destructive tendencies. Hmm. "Alessa?" she asked. At that, the demon just watched her for a moment. Then he turned about and resumed walking.

* * *

Heather got her first clue as to where the Pyramid had led her when the duo emerge into what seemed like catacombs. The area was more claustrophobic with clearly defined walls and staircases; and it also had more mortal-realm features. In specific it had little cubby-hole lockers and the occasional discarded art project. There was something else. She felt something nearby. A potency in the air, a tingling on her skin. This place was significant in some way. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment; it felt like Impotence's lair down there. Heather blinked and looked in surprise to the Pyramid Monster. "We're underneath the school?" she asked, gently tugging on the monster's arm. As usual her monster was not particularly conversant and did not respond to her.

Heather lifted a brow, then stopped walking and laughed. At this, the Red Pyramid paused and half-turned back to look at her. Apparently they still weren't in a very stable area, and he was still pausing so she could catch up. Her laugh seemed to hit a nerve, however, and he gave a slightly aggressive toss of his head. She saw his fingers tense over his sword hilt, but as she couldn't understand why he'd be angry she didn't react to it.

"I think you're helping me _cheat!_" she exclaimed. "I shouldn't be this far in the underworld yet without dealing with all the puzzles above..."

He turned fully to face her, dragging his sword around behind him. His tall frame filled the hallway and there was no way by which to get around him. Heather blinked at him and then glanced behind herself. Rather than seeing a stairway winding back up to the hellscape, she saw a dead-end corridor with a locked schoolroom door on her left. She looked back to the Pyramid Creature, who- despite his silence and his lack of eyes- was clearly furious and glaring daggers down at her. His shoulders were raised and his helmeted face was lowered. His fingers were white-knuckled over his blade. They were now definitely in the school. Her glance back and forward had given the hall time to manifest.

"Samael-" she protested. He growled loudly and she winced. "Hey," she muttered soothingly, apologetically. She moved towards him and lifted her hands, and was relieved when he let her re-enter his striking range and touch him. "I don't know how I messed up just now," she confessed, "but I'm sorry. And not just because you're nine feet tall with a giant blade and blocking the hallway, either." The helmet watched her. A little entranced by the monster- maybe still a little giddy about his existence- she lifted up her fingers and gently brushed over the metal mesh.

Her touch seemed to have a sedative effect on the creature, whose shoulders eased downward again the same way they had when she'd first used James' name on him. Heather's eyes narrowed as she tried to get a sense for what had set him off, but nothing came to mind. Too bad she wasn't telepathic with him the same way she was with Walter and Valtiel. They really were different monsters.

"Something's been eating at me," Heather said slowly, considering the last two big 'showdowns' she'd had in Silent Hill. The Pyramid monster didn't respond, but he was distinctly calmer. She smiled and trailed her fingers over a few of his scars. "Since I saw Valtiel... I've been wondering... Can Xipe control you?"

The helmet, which had been drifting back to a neutral position, suddenly snapped to her. Corded muscles bunched up. Heather had an instant to comprehend she'd just suggested something terrible. Then there was a freight train of muscled demigod plowing into her. He bull-rushed her straight into the end of the hall, a good twenty meters behind her. He hoisted her off the ground and slammed her into the wall so hard she saw stars. There was a harsh metallic bang and he contorted violently, jerking backwards slightly. Another metallic bang, and another and another. He released her, jerking backwards with each noise. Heather hit the ground after a four feet fall and crumbled to her ass, wheezing and shaking.

Samael looked downward, touching a hand to his chest and then lifting it up to see that it was smeared with blood. He turned his helmeted head back to Heather, who was wiping blood from her nose and who continued to point her small hand gun at him.

When Heather saw the waves of rage coiling through him, she lowered her gun and spat blood in his direction. "Fuck off!" she wheezed. "Some of us can't regenerate crushed rib bones overnight!" Her back was killing her and her eyes rolled up momentarily as she tried to catch her breath. She heard the mighty blade shrieking over the ground and then silence. Her eyes flew open and she rolled to the side as the massive weapon came slicing down through the wall behind her, tearing a hole open into a oily gunk-filled void space beyond. Scrambling to all fours she dove past his side. Fingers grabbed for her and missed. Heather floundered from all fours to her feet and dashed forward and away from him. She stopped only when she heard the metallic yanking behind her and knew he was temporarily rooted to the wall by his trapped sword. He freed it just as she turned to face him.

This was out of control! She'd known he was unstable; and now it seemed something had finally tipped him over the edge. Maybe this was inevitable; maybe his only purpose had been to quickly ferry her to this destination. She could outrun him, but her head was feeling cloudy. He whirled to face her as the tip of the executioner knife hit the ground. His arms bulged with the force he'd need to charge after her.

At a loss for what to do, desperate, confused, injured, and wishing desperately she could take back the question, Heather was appalled to realize that she was rooted to the spot, wide-eyed, with tears on her face.

_Move! Move! Oh come on Heather's body, these are NOT the kickass survival instincts I pay you for!_

She lifted her hands. "Don't!" she exclaimed. He was taking his first step towards her, the blade gaining momentum behind him. "Don't chase me away! I don't want to leave you!"

Pyramid Things were usually slow and there was no way he could have caught her if she were sprinting. But he had the momentum of the sword behind him and there was prey in sight; the weapon glided after him in a straight path and he was as unstoppable as a freight train. If she'd shot him again, he probably wouldn't have noticed. Heather cursed profusely, braced her legs, feeling lightheaded as she did so. As the monstrous being came at her, she formulated a plan to take advantage of his slow strike speed. When she saw the muscles in his arm strain, she dove forward. The blade swung high and slow, its motion predictable. Her body ducked under arc of the heavy weapon, passing under the mighty sweep of his free arm and the falling motion of his torso as his whole body followed through with the swing. She tackled him and it was like running straight into a brick pillar for all the yield he gave. The impact was painful but she hugged onto him tightly. The blade hit the ground with a mighty crash. Fingers grabbed painfully into her hair and around her scalp and neck. He was bent double with the falling motion of his blade and her arms clasped tightly under one of his shoulders and over the top of the other, so that one of her forearms rested against his neck. Her hands barely met around him; he was just that broad.

"I don't want to lose you!" she screamed as the fingers seized up to tear her away. She held on as tightly as she could, hysteria that had nothing to do with her imminent death blowing holes through her rationality and clouding her brain with images. "Don't leave me! _Don't leave me! SAMAEL! STOP!_"

Everything froze. Heather was almost hyperventilating into Samael's chest, her whole body shaking violently. Too much. Too fast. Too much loss. She'd anchored herself into this mass-murdering demon. She'd _just_ worked up the conviction to keep fighting for Valtiel. There had been wall-baby monsters.

Her head was pounding. Samael had hit her exceptionally hard when he'd rammed her into the wall.

It dawned on her that the hand at the back of her neck had not budged. The monster did not straighten up or try to strangle her with his tongue. His blade remained embedded in the ground. After several moments of dizzy sobs, Heather peered weakly up at the meshed helmet.

When she saw the monster had paused she choked back a whimper and brushed her fingers over the red grating. "She-she took Valtiel," she blubbered to him. The monster seemed to tense slightly. "She pulled him out of my arms. I sent him in there! I didn't know about her! I asked him to go and he went and he kissed my face and I- I-" Tears flooded down her cheeks. "Walter says he was just a mirror! A mirror she rewrote and now- I can't- Its like he never even... It's like he never _was _and he doesn't remember he- he-" Her eyes squeezed shut from the heat and saline of her tears and she sobbed low. The world was starting to spin a little. "He went b-because h-he _loved me_," she spewed brokenheartedly. "My dad... And-and Alex... They're dead because they _loved me_! A-and Val's all that's left a-and maybe he never _was_ in the first place a-and all I-I loved w-was my sh-shadow...!"

The Pyramid Thing touched her almost uncertainly, as if confused. His motions were suddenly no longer streamlined but gestural, and therefore _familiar_. She opened her eyes again, red and puffy. Her headache was getting worse "_You're_ all that's with me," she croaked. "D-Don't you th-think I care what happens to you? Don't you think I'm scared of her? Wh-why are you ma-m... wh..." It was getting hard to form words.

The demon shifted his weight and then slowly, slowly, he sank from a bend position into an upright kneeling one. He stayed on her level, letting her hug him, leaning on the weight of his embedded weapon. She sensed something then. She sensed an emotion, like she had with Valtiel, like she had with Walter. She sensed something like _hatred._

Then the world, which had already been swimming, started to careen back and forward. Heather's eyelashes fluttered and she fainted dead away. The last thing she was conscious for before she hit the ground was her Pyramid Monster's alarmed cry.


	41. Damsel? I'll Give you 'Damsel'

_**The Witch Queen **Has** Not Been Cleansed.**_

_** This** Is** No**t The Way it_ _**Ends.**_

_The** Fa**lse Ember Is Still There. It Bu**rns.** It Mocks The Light Of Crea**tio**n. It Has Not Been Exc**is**ed. It Is Too Soon. _

_I Can Taste The Blood In He**r Hair**. Her Breathing Is **Shal**low. _

_ I Can S**cul**pt Angels From The Filth Of Mortal Sin, But I Cannot H**eal** Human Flesh._

_ThiS iS IncoRreCt... I_

_ cOuld noT Control... I_

_coUld nOt... How co**u**ld I_

_Not... In what maNner was tHis... _

_How diD... _

_What have yoU_

_dOne To me? _

_I heAr the wiTch quEen speak with her_

_tauNts and yet then theRe is _

_straNge softness. _

_What is this?_

_ Why is the heart racing?_

_ why are we frigHtened by your blood?_

_are you going to die?_

_...mother...? _

_... ... ... heather...?_

_..._

_valtiel. _

_Valtiel. _

_Valtiel! _

_VALTIEL!_

** _V_ ** ** _AAALTIIIIELLL ! ! !_ **

_ **BROTHER ! ! ! ** _

_ **ANGEL ! ! !   
** _

_ **H  
E  
L  
P  
  
M  
E  
!  
!  
!** _

* * *

Valtiel _was_ there, and Heather knew it.

She couldn't see, hear, or feel him; she was being held in limbo, halfway into a coma, floating on a strange dark mixture of partial awareness. By the warm tingling at the farthest extremities of her nerves, he was preparing to resuscitate her. Had she died? Perhaps not; she still felt slightly cognizant. Very well then; she hadn't died, but she was incapacitated all the same. With what thought power she possessed, she wanted to know why Valtiel would elect to revive her. He was currently under Xipe's power, and she'd vetted the god fetus years ago. Was this his affection showing through?

The corners of her brain sensed a rumbling, an argument, a debate, and perhaps a compromise. There was a possibility that Valtiel and Samael were simply antagonistic in purpose, and that Samael had derailed something in Xipe's grand plan by murdering her. Yes, come to think of it, Xipe was Edwin's. And if Valtiel was Xipe's, that meant Valtiel _might_ keep Heather alive for Edwin to deal with.

Edwin wanted to rebirth god, didn't he? Then a vestigial nerve system in her intestinal system suddenly went haywire. She felt something real then, something not-telepathic, not-smokey. She felt Valtiel place a fuse-fingered hand over her abdomen.

_No, _she begged hysterically, not knowing if this signified what she thought it did, but too traumatized to leave such a thing to chance. Yet her thoughts came out sluggish and weak, almost monotone. _Please. Please. Valtiel. Don't._

Orange energy seeped into her from all around, from a Halo of the Sun, traveling up her limbs, towards her core.

_Valtiel... Valtiel...! There might be a baby that could... Valtiel don't... don't do... Just another day... Just..._

She thought she felt a shudder pass through those fingertips. Then all thought and memory transformed into a hot, piercing light.

* * *

Something was wrong. That was Heather's first thought when she started awake. Her whole body was agonized, streaks of blinding light working their way through her skull. The ground around her was ethereal for a moment. Then it exploded with ash and hardened into a latticework of metal and rust. All around her, gears began to churn. Valves spun of their own accord.

"Valtiel-!" she choked, trying to hold onto smokey, elusive memories. In her memories, the physical manifestation of two deities crouched, negotiating her future. Was she dreaming right now? Her head spun with images, and in them she saw something that sort of _looked_ like a Pyramid Head, but which was wreathed in smoke and flame, half of its body laced in endless shackles, a giant smithing hammer clutched in the opposite hand. She saw Impotence and other writhing shapes she did not recognize. Bird feathers, a golden helmet, then, and then... Then her mind was going blank and the memories were falling out left and right. She grabbed frantically at their tattered pieces, but none of them would hold water for her.

Falling back against the ground, Heather moaned helplessly. Her head was throbbing and for the moment she couldn't remember who she was, much less _where_ or how she'd gotten there. Headaches overwhelmed her. Her vision was becoming blotchy, her limbs heavy. She could feel something touching her, appraising her, but there were no limbs in sight. A tingling in her nerves was driving her mad.

_Don't go back to sleep._

_I'm going crazy. Where is this? How?_

_Don't go back to sleep._

_How do dreams work in Silent Hill? How does instant unconscious transportation work, either?_

_Don't - go - back - to - sleep._

"I felt Valtiel!" she shrieked into the still, clawing her way to her hands and knees. "Samael- Samael _attacked me_ and then... I felt both of them, I felt them over me, I felt..." Her mind was involuntarily purging the memories. Heather slammed her fist on the ground, but her bleary-eyed condition caused her to injure herself. She scraped her knuckles on something sharp and they hurt immediately. Heather's breath caught in her throat as she looked around. With a startled exclamation, she realized she was staring at a spilled bucket of very rusty tools, including a crowbar (on which she'd hurt herself) a hammer and a heavy wrench. She looked at the blood. Then, frantically, she scraped the red liquid into the ground. Circle. Pyramid. Runes. Seal of the Metatron. Now! She had almost finished it when she heard a high-pitched scream, a scream which triggered all of Heather's survival instincts. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the first tool her fingers settled on and looked around in alarm. She was wide awake now. The symbol was unfinished.

Heather saw she was in 'hell,' the underbelly of Silent Hill, with its ash, gears, rust, fires, and machinery. How had she gotten here? Last she'd been conscious, she remembered leaving hell and heading up into the school. Something was wrong. Something had gone wrong, or out of alignment, or off track. She wasn't supposed to be here. And, apparently, her unknown screamer agreed.

Something smacked into her back hard. It seemed for a second like the black tendrils from when she'd been fighting Alessa's tar-void ghost, but these hit into her much harder and sharper, like thick whips. Furious, confused, and in psychological pain, Heather twisted about. Something grabbed her; a long, fiery tongues looped around her arms and waist. Fiery? Fiery wasn't the right word. They weren't _hot_, but they resembled bright flames twisted into shapes. A quick glance suggested that they were long streamers of fiery letters or runes. A pause.

"Scrolls-" she whispered in sudden recognition, realizing what they were. They were the same tongues of flame she'd seen in her dreams! Was she dreaming!? These belonged to Xipe! Then the appendages yanked her backwards with tremendous strength. They tore her off her feet, dragged her to the ground, and carried her off into the nether. Heather shrieked in alarm.

As Xipe dragged her, Heather had to squirm and dodge as moving gears roared hotly all around her. Her clothing tore at the rusty ground; her shoulder was getting scraped and barbs tore open her pant leg; and all it would take was one jerk sideways and the tongues could kill her at any second. How long were these scrolls, they seemed infinite! Where was Xipe? God she was going to pull Heather all the way to Edwin! The scrolls smashed her into every small stumbling block that got in her way, but she heard something important, booming, like drumbeats in the distance.

_Get these scrolls off. Now!_

The first appendage she grabbed was taut and strong, and hitting it with her new melee weapon (it was the wrench she'd grabbed off the ground) didn't seem to do much. But after a moment of wrestling against the ground, Heather found she was able to tear the tongue in half like it were made of particularly tough paper.

Heather stuffed the wrench stubbornly into her belt, unwilling to lose the first melee weapon she'd found thus far, and grabbed for a second tongue. She had almost torn this one in half when more of the whip-like things suddenly appeared, grabbing her arms, her legs, her hands. They grappled with her, preventing her from doing anything more than flailing and thrashing. Now she couldn't even try to roll out of the way of harmful obstacles.

"THE FUCK IS WITH YOU AND TENTACLES TODAY!?" she shrieked in frustrated absurdity at Alessa and Xipe both. Bam, the tongues dragged her hard over another outcropping. Boom, boom, boom went the constant mechanical drumbeats.

_Lodge yourself against something! You need some leverage! You are not going to die like some floozy in a slasher movie! Not today!_

As architecture zoomed by- or more correctly as she was yanked past architecture- she spotted an outcropping and reached for it with a boot. Missed. She howled and then bodily lunged for another one still some distance yet ahead of her. Her fingertips coiled around a lip of metal.

Yoink! Heather held firm. When Xipe found she couldn't pull the girl any farther, her tongues went slack for a moment. Heather took in a hard breath just as they suddenly yanked. The force of the tug sent a whiplash through her body and Heather cried out in alarm, scrambling to hold onto the outcropping. Her ears were ringing from her numerous collisions, but her will held firm. The tongues went slack again, preparing for another yank. A gear rushed low over Heather's head, carrying an arm that dumped rust and corpses off into an endless ravine. The hell was she going to do? This was hopeless! Everything around her was a death trap, even if she managed to get away!

That distant drumbeat was accelerating. She heard a roar.

Heather shrieked as the tendrils yanked her free of her holding. Thinking and reacting swiftly, she rolled slightly to the side so that Xipe's yank overcompensated. Her left boot snagged itself between two metal pillars, and her fingers grabbed on to iron cord and grating. The tongues switched the angle of their pull and then gave a tremendous tug. Heather braced herself, holding on against the pull with gritted teeth and furrowed brow. Then, when the tongues eventuallywent slack again, she used the elastic rebound motion to heave herself up further around the metal pillar. She wrapped both arms tightly around another beam. Clench! Another yank. This time she held on. When the pull went slack, Heather gulped in hot air and looked frantically across the hellscape.

This was only going to hold off Xipe for a moment. What was she going to do? There were monsters around her, she could see now, but they seemed upset by the scrolls. Maybe they were frightened of Xipe; Not the same way they had been upset by the Pyramid Monster, but enough that they weren't currently trying to eat Heather. She was alone. Alone in hell. She felt a pressure crushing down on her again, and scarcely realized the tongues were no longer pulling her. She... she just needed... she needed rest. She needed this to go away for a moment. How had she even gotten here? It didn't matter... It didn't...

Heather clenched her arms tightly around the beam. In a flash, in a moment of clarity, she saw herself standing before a mighty god. He towered into the air like a building; he weighed more than a freight engine. Flames billowed around him, flames that gave off heat but no light. A huge red helmet, ornate but rotted, stared down at her.

_ **I Will Unmake You. Summon Me.** _

Heather's eyes opened, trying to dispel the vision. It lingered. Even though she was awake in hell, she could still see that fearsome thing, that demon, that _god_, in all its impossible glory. She felt Xipe's tendrils tightening around her, forbidding the martyrdom, preparing to drag her again or beat her into unconsciousness. Then and and only then, only in that moment, did she realize that gods themselves- not just cults- could have different interpretations of their matron's words. Xuchibara wanted to outright kill her. Xipe and Lobsel-Vith wanted to use her. Xuchibara wanted her once place; Xipe wanted her in another. And Heather had apparently woken up between the two of them.

** _SUMMON. ME._ **

Heather felt the diety's name on her lips, then bit down hard on it, swallowing it. As the tendrils yanked harder than ever before, she closed her eyes and focused with all her strength, all her might, not on a god, not on a demon, but on a living, breathing _thing_.

"SAMAEL!" she shrieked in desperation.

The word was like an invocation, but not exactly the kind she had been asked to provide. She heard dust, metal, and rust whirling past her with almost explosive force. As she turned she saw the executioner stepping through the gap between two machines, scarcely a meter away. There were tendrils clinging to his helmet and arms, but he didn't appear to even notice them. His blade was over his head and coming down mid-swing, sailing straight down for Heather's prone form. At that, Heather couldn't help but scream in surprise. Then the weapon landed just beside her, severing the tongues of flame with a sizzling crackle. The scroll tips turned to paper and then dust around Heather and the girl frantically scrambled to her feet.

The blood was still rushing back to her head when the Pyramid Monster grabbed her shirt by the collar, hoisting her aloft over metal beams and hauling her vigorously to its side. His hand stayed on the back of her neck, like a vice.

Then tongues of flame hurtled out of the hellish architecture, too many for Heather to count with her head spinning, but perhaps slightly over a dozen. Samael raised his enormous Great Knife aloft as if to deal with them, but they writhed easily around the weapon and snarled him. Some wrapped quickly around his helmet, others about his broad shoulders, and still others coiling under his skirt and around one of his legs. He struggled. He was shaking, straining against the hold.

Heather cursed, disoriented and confused. Samael still had one hand affixed tightly to the back of her neck, keeping her close to him. She saw a tendril writhing down his arm, realized how hard he was fighting. "Samael!" she exclaimed, grabbing at the tendrils around his torso. "Fight! Fight!"

As if her voice served as some kind of catalyst, the Pyramid creature suddenly jerked his sword arm free, tendrils snapped with amazing popping sounds, exploding elastically under the raw application of his amazing strength. He slashed at them, tossed his head furiously to loose the ones on his helmet. The tendrils exploded into ash but then lengthened, returned, and grabbed again. More appeared, and more after that. Heather tried to claw at the ones that got too near, but the Pyramid Thing was keeping a very rigid and unpleasantly firm grasp on her. He smothered her into his side now, crushing her almost painfully. She aws helpless to do anything as she watched tendrils spiral up his left leg and yank. "Samael!" There was a painful crash as they jerked him down to one knee, and the weight of his controlling hand pushed Heather to the ground.

Heather choked on dust and her head spun from the confusion of being thrown and dragged around. A booming roar, followed by another and another roused her attention. Then she realized there was liquid dripping on her. She jerked her head up, and saw that the tendrils were slashing open wounds in the Pyramid Monster's flesh as he tried to stand. They grabbed at him, pulled at his skin, whipped him, and constricted open huge welts. Heather _recognized_ the wounds. She'd seen them before, on Valtiel.

"Samael!" she shouted again, trying to worm free of his grasp so she could help him. The demon surprised her when he refused to let her move. Instead he hoarded her even more forcefully to his chest. She felt his torso expand as he took in a very deep breath. Then with an elephantine roar, he surged back to his feet. He lifted up the blade, this time like it was an elegant fencing rapier. It dove through the air, slashing back and forward, down towards the tendrils around his leg, around him in an arch, near, and far. Tendrils burst asunder, reformed, grabbed at him and held taut with all their strength. He twisted to knock aside an oncoming ribbon of flame, and his motion- his strength, his raw, defiant power- pulled the other tongues to shreds.

Heather shuddered, clutching at him, eyes wide in confusion. The tendrils retracted, then dove forward as one. The Pyramid creature took in a breath and then lunged forward, roaring. This time his touch sent flames rushing up the lengths of the tendrils. The appendages writhed and withered away, shaking violently and spurting ash. Their tips stopped reforming. The ash would travel up their lengths till they resembled cigarette butts and then fall away to nothing.

Within seconds he'd ruined twelve of what appeared to be fourteen main tendrils. Then he grabbed the thirteenth and gave a final, echoing bellow, yanking at the length with all his might. Energy, hot and golden in appearance, exploded down the length. Apparently whatever Samael was doing tot he tendril could be felt keenly on Xipe's end, as she gave an omnipresent scream to end all screams. It shook the landscape and sent shocks of pain through Heather's ears and teeth. Her nose started to bleed (a condition that wasn't helped by how the Pyramid Monster was clutching her).

Samael roared in answer, daring the final tendril to come near. It retracted, and vanished from sight. Samael glared after it defiantly for a moment, blood oozing in rivulets down his flesh. It was fairly safe, Heather thought, to say that he had won this exchange. When Xipe didn't show herself or strike at him again, the Pyramid Monster snorted hard and then turned away, dragging a dazed Heather roughly after him.

"Hey- uh- oof... _Samael_," Heather croaked in protest. The Pyramid Monster whirled on her with a violent roar, heaving up the tip of his sword and pointing the weapon straight at her head. Heather's eyes widened, images of a fiery hell-god flashing behind her eyes. Then she saw a slithering motion out of the corner of her eye. Helpless to move or even to get a good view, Heather watched as Xipe's last scroll reappeared. The flaming tendril arched upwards, grabbed onto a giant arm of metal high above them, and gave a terribly fearsome pull. "Samae-!" the monster's hand tightened on her throat, cutting off air. Then the half-god looked up. His whole body stiffened as he realized a gigantic makeshift pendulum of solid metal was falling towards them through the surrounding rust. The arm pivoted straight for where they were standing, rupturing the ground without taking any noticeable reduction in speed. With little more than a heartbeat to react, the Pyramid Monster chose to push Heather out of the way. She gave a choked scream. Then the metal arm slammed down into him, throwing him backwards and through several supportive beams of architecture. The ground where he'd been standing was obliterated.

Dazed and hurt, Heather still had little problem running after him. As the pendulum sank through the ground and disappeared, Heather sprinted for her fallen monster. He hadn't gotten up. She heard the tortured sound of twisting metal, but paid the collapsing landscape little heed. Perhaps that was foolish- Xipe was still out there and Samael had nearly torn Heather's head off only a short while ago- but there was very little logical decision making going on at the moment. She skid to a halt beside the monster, watching the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His bones, Heather gathered, had been heavily damaged. Still, they retained their basic shape, and though Samael looked thoroughly floored and was bleeding out puddles, he was also very much alive. That was amazing. And horrifying. She dropped to her knees beside him, noticing the crumpled state of his left shoulder and the severely lacerated state of his right.

"You _idiot,_" she protested. The monster grunted, then suddenly hissed and screamed, grabbing at her shoulder and trying to push her away. Heather spun about, then looked up as the sound of anguished metal finally caught her attention. She saw Xipe's last tendril, taking out the support beams of an amazingly large structure above them, something like a giant oil rig on stilts. "Oh no," she muttered, looking down at the Pyramid Monster and then out towards an approximation of where the falling rig would be unable to reach her. She couldn't drag him all that way. "Get up," she begged, looking down at him, but he merely writhed and hissed, shoving at her shoulder. "Get up! Get up, I'm not-" He pushed her away. She swore and thew herself back to his side. "I'm not leaving _you_! You have to-" She heard a groan, a sound similar to what the falling smoke stacks had sounded like in the movie Titanic. Heather looked up in horror to see the 'oil ri'g listing dramatically, metal stilts starting to buckle noticeably under its weight.

There was no time. Heather looked down at Samael. The monster hissed at her. _Run._

No. Not this time. Heather grabbed at the demon, wetting her hands completely in his blood. Then she started smearing the stuff away from him, picking up handfuls of rust bloodied in the stuff. Seal of the Metatron. Now. The oil rig teetered and moaned, steel buckled around her. She threw the reddened ash and grime out in the approximation of a circle. The She scuffed away ash to reveal the metal, and painted the runes on by hand. Samael writhed helplessly, trying to get up. She returned to him and spread the blood out in a triangle around where he'd fallen.

Crack. Boom. The demon screamed furiously at her, still unable to rise from the ground. Heather dived for him, wrapping her arms tightly around the greatest symbol of raw power she knew of. This time, when she imagined the fiery Xuchibara, she did not try to dispel the image for the mind.

_You need to take my hand._

As the oil rig hurtled down atop them, Heather turned her gaze slowly upward. She watched it, watched as it came down at them, a thousand tons of screaming hot metal and moving gears.

The oil rig hit down. Its frame buckled, caved, gears sloughed to the side like water. It covered the place Xipe had dropped it; it buried the land in broken metal, a mist of rust, and a hail of shrapnel and gears. The fourteenth tendril appraised the scene, feeling the borders of the wreck for any taste of Heather Mason. Then, disappointed, they retreated. The prize- the Mother of God- had been lost to Xuchibara's insane appetite. At least the Faithful were safe from him.

* * *

Xuchibara threw down his hammer with such force that the ground exploded, and creatures shrieked and became inflamed all around him.

_ **HOW!? HOW!?** _

His eyes turned upwards, towards the sibling whose cold domain approximated heaven. The other could not hear him, and perhaps it was best that he couldn't.

_ **WHAT DID THAT BITCH TEAR OUT OF YOU THAT SHE WAS SCARED I WOULD SEE!? WHAT IS THIS!? WHAT IS SHE!?** _

His eyes whirled towards his latest creation, towards the beautiful creature he had made to damn the Witch Queen at the core of her old Blasphemy. With unchallenged certainty, he _knew_ he had created a perfect death. It would destroy her, tear out her soul and show its falsehood, and eradicate her sinful flesh. A nightmarish howl escaped his throat, a horrified, enraged, despaired, and homicidal sound. He grasped at the construct, willing his life into the beautiful monstrosity, his hatred, his power- willing everything he could give it. On the mortal realm he perceived the creature growing stronger, more intricate, more deadly. He enhanced it then, with nothing but his hands. He fed a millennium of pain, suffering, anguish, and fury. Then, when he perceived its form could take no more energy and that no more enhancement were possible, he released it and screamed furiously into the muck and filth around him.

What if she survived? What if the spark endured? What then?

His screamed choked off into an agonized squeal. He clawed at his helmet, bloodying his fingertips on the metal.

What if she didn't?

_**How Does She Glow? **_the demigod whimpered, and he knew he had not felt such helpless desperation since the day God had first perished from the earth.

* * *

Separated from Xipe's questing grasp by dozens of feet of crumpled metal, Heather slowly closed her eyes.

Around her, a orange bubble began to dissipate. Four meters tall and four in radius, the crunched and metal metal of the rig had formed a near-perfect semi-circle around her Seal of the Metatron. The fall hadn't even stirred up the dust around her. Heather took a long, slow breath, and then slumped away into unconsciousness.

Samael was too weak to even get his arm around her. As Silent Hill shifted and spun around them, his tongue lashed out and coiled protectively into Heather Mason's dyed blonde hair. The smell was familiar on two counts.


	42. Bottled Rage

The school was dark and ominous on the interior, but no one risked turning on the lights. Perhaps they were used to walking around in the dark; or perhaps they actually remembered this was the real world and they couldn't be found breaking into school buildings. In any event, they had quite a number of flashlights, and so their path forward into the old and creaking building was reasonably well illuminated.

"What a creepy school," Laura muttered dryly, glancing at cute crayon drawings that had been tacked up above the childrens' lockers. Not _scary_, of course; but creepy in the dark.

Travis glanced back at her and James gave a wordless sigh. The former shook his head and looked back to the route they were traveling.

"So how are we going to hide this thing?" Laura asked. "Just lob it in the janitor's closet? It's going to look crazy if some kid finds it tomorrow morning."

No one really justified that with a reply; Travis alone gave a wordless grunt. Laura made a face at them all. By now the party was really quiet. Elle appeared to have passed out, and with her no longer sending out distress signals, Murphy seemed a little uncomfortable carrying her; maybe it had finally sunk in that she was a complete stranger. Still when Douglass offered take the chick off Murphy's hands, the younger man declined; Douglass was old with bad knees, James was sick, and Travis was getting on in age too. The only person more qualified to carry Elle than Murphy was probably Henry, who also happened to be the party wall fly and thus not particularly great at volunteering to touch strange new people 

The whole party was tense and nervous looking, and yet no one was talking to break up the tension. At first this was kind of irritating to Laura; eventually it became stifling.

"So..." she drawled, trying to break the silence, "that was 'Little Walter,' right? What was with the black gunk all over his face?"

Eileen shuddered. A few people gave Laura strange looks. Laura gave them strange looks right back. Then she made a loud Hmph! noise and stopped moving with a stomp of her foot. The rest of the party was slightly startled by the noise and turned about to look at her in confusion.

"Alright guys, I know all of you are seriously messed up/traumatized/whatever by what you've gone through," she told them sarcastically, "but guess what? We're currently here in the _real world_ where breaking into schools have _real consequences_. And you guys are acting like World War II vets who've gone crazy, visited a park, started having flashbacks to the trenches, and are now about to start throwing grenades at innocent bystanders."

"Laura," James growled impatiently but then winced because he still felt quite ill.

"Oh don't give me that," she hissed back. "The whole country's going mad over the recent school shootings. Haven't you heard about the zero-tolerance policies? Some six year old is in court hearings over packing a kitchen knife in his backpack! I get that whatever you guys have been through is such a crazy acid trip that even the new guy, who ordinarily looks like he'd rather sink into a wall than socialize, suddenly found himself volunteering to carry The Shrieking Emo Princess. But you guys need to take a serious reality check and remember _we are in an elementary school. _You can't just act like a bunch of crazies, like you did with that guy at the antique shop, and pretend its normal!"

James grimaced in dismay and looked to the others. "She doesn't understand," he tried to explain to an estranged and disturbed looking party.

"She has a point," Eileen managed. "Even if she's a little _loud_ in how she makes it."

"Hush," Travis said suddenly, looking at something apart from the group.

Laura frowned, and snapped out a, "Who made you-!"

Douglass grabbed Laura and covered her mouth quickly. There was a moment of silence in which Laura rolled insulted eyes up at the detective and tried to determine whether or not she was going to bite him. Travis's flashlight darted about in the gloom and then slowly came to rest on a hand-mirror that had apparently been dropped and forgotten in the middle of the hallway. Henry recognized the object and came up alongside the truck driver, giving him a questioning look.

"We should do this quickly," Travis managed after a few moments. "We're not safe here."

Laura had managed to wrestle free of Douglass. "How do you figure?" she growled.

Travis didn't look annoyed with her; he looked incredibly centered. "The man at the antique shop was a cultist."

Henry blinked and then looked down the hall. "We told them where to find us," he realized. "Like someone must have told them about Elle..."

"You're paranoid," she sneered as Travis moved forward to slowly pick up the mirror. Henry followed him most of the way, heeding his own advice that no one should ever go anywhere alone. Laura felt slightly bitter with the party at the moment, but couldn't ignore a little curiosity as Travis stood and examined the mirror. He showed it to Henry, who blinked in surprise.

"Do you see what I see?" Travis asked.

"Its reflecting you as the Butcher," Henry noted curiously. "Why?"

"Ah," came a soft male voice from somewhere off in the darkness beyond them. Henry and Travis had their flashlights up instantaneously, and then tensed when they saw a man standing there dressed in cultist robes. Flanking him were two 'guards' each in cleanly laundered white clerical robes, with low red hoods. "I was wondering where she'd found so much spiritual rage..."

* * *

His breathing was hoarse. It rattled in his chest, through powdered bones which had already begun to heal. The pain was excruciating; it writhed through every fiber of his being. Pain was familiar. Helplessness was not.

He found himself able to think, just a little, and he did not like it.

Existence ought to have been a rush, a constant hot stream of _purpose_, but he had been rendered immobile, without action, without violence. It was unbearable; yet he bore it.

He did not have to.

The bosom of Silent Hill was close, offering to dissolve him to rust and rebirth him where he would be needed most. He would disperse until the air raid sirens called him back, and no trace of the harm would remain. Matter to energy, energy to matter; he was power, not flesh, and he could not truly be broken.

And yet he felt no inclination to leave.

He could taste her with the tongue he kept latched around her throat. The warm of her hair; the natural oils within it, the repulsive splendor of the human fragrance. Silent Hill was not spinning; remaining as stable and dark as she had left it.

He wanted to strangle and he wanted to caress. Either way, neither compulsion involved releasing her, so nothing in him wanted to disperse.

Her smell was blasphemous and heavenly; intoxicating and disgusting. The way it blotted out his mind at most times soothed him; his existence craved the intoxication of _unthinking certainty._

In the quite periods when he could think, he was anguished, suffering, _trapped, _bipolar, insane. His only reassurance in those moments was that justice was still his. For a moment he had been forced to surrender it; an instant later her self-destructive power had given it back.

Hair. The smell. It blanketed away thoughts and made him whole; made him a creature of senses, of action, and banished thought. It took effort, but he managed to slide his good arm closer to her. Bloodied fingers splayed against the fabric of her clothing.

The physical contact invigorated him in ways he did not care to understand. He managed to pull her closer, and in an instant of thought is panicked mind wondered why her scent was so familiar. He should not have hurt her, and he knew why, and yet somehow he _didn't_.

_YOU BLASPHEMED. THERE IS NO SKY._

There was more than that...

_Heather, stop! It's a monster, it's not a person anymore! Just a memory! you're going to lose your arm!_

Something he didn't understand

_Maybe if you hadn't torn me limb from limb I'd be able to help you, you ever think of that!?_

_He roared at her._

_I don't fucking care! I'll help you anyway; take my hand!_

Then, blissfully, he was no longer thinking.

* * *

"Travis Grady, I presume?" the man asked in a soft and soothing voice. The tone was so gentle, so neutral, that at least half the party was left confused on his gender. He appeared androgynous with long curling dark hair, and although his lacked breasts his clothing looked caught between a cleric's robes and a gypsy's dress. The bland layers of fabric seemed almost humble; but the man's intelligent eyes and straight-backed posture spoke of a charismatic and powerful individual.

"Yeah," the truck driver acknowledged, still holding the mirror.

"After so many years," the cultist murmured appreciatively, and his eyes slipped languidly over to rest on the others of the group. In particular his eyes fell on Douglass, Henry, and Elle Holloway; it seemed he could deduce enough about the rest of them from just those representatives. He shook his head in wonder.

"I confess surprise," he said at last, his voice almost sad. "Surprise that the faithful had so many enemies working in collusion with one another... If only we had known, then so many lives might have been spared..."

He seemed to murmur a prayer for fallen souls. Travis glanced from him to the mirror. In it he could see the reflections of his party members. In Murphy's place stood a monster in a rain coat and ventilator mask; In James' was a Red Pyramid. Elle and Douglass had lacked any alterations; but Eileen was wearing a maternal gown, and Henry had been marked with a third eye.

"I would ordinarily wish to bid any newcomer welcome to our town," the cultist said slowly, "but instead now I must beg of you to leave. We have no quarrel with any of you. What our brethren did concerning Walter Sullivan was not sanctioned by the whole; and Alessa's own trials are long since past. Please, can you not leave us in peace?"

"You're with the cult?" Laura asked. "Look that guy at the antique shop, we didn't mean to freak him out..."

Travis turned towards Henry, but kept his eyes on the mirror. He angled it quickly towards the reflection of the cultists. Standing behind the cleric, a woman was hovering. She was horrifying and amazing. A leather veil covered her eyes, wrathed in scars. Almost every inch of her was covered in leather or cloth, and her skin was cracked and scarred in the few areas that were exposed. Spiraling out from behind her like wings were long trails of scrolls, each written in blood and wrapped protectively about the ground where Edwin was standing. A halo of red light radiated out from her.

Travis looked at the cultist, who was conversing softly with Laura. He didn't hear what they were saying. He calmly reached behind him, pulled his firefighter's axe out from his belt, and looped Heather's katana into the space it had occupied.

"This is the guy who killed Alex," he told the group. "Get behind me."

Laura went dead silent. The party scrambled to obey. Edwin blinked in surprise and lifted his hands in vulnerable protest.

"You mistake me," he said. "God saw fit to redeem Elle Holloway, and should that not be enough? We did not come here to harm any of you! Please, we-"

"Then I'm glad your god doesn't have anything against anyone killing you in cold blood," Travis answered as the survivors around him raised their guns.

Edwin frowned. "So be it," he murmured, and with that their flashlights suddenly went dark.

"The fuck?" Laura growled, then nearly jumped out of her skin as something dropped into her hair and then smeared over her face. She cried out when she realized it was slimy and ended up bumping into Douglass as she tried to get away from it. The flashlights flickered back on with a burst of orange light.

"Oh my god," she heard James whimper, followed by startled exclamations from at least half the party. Laura struggled to look up at whatever had accosted her. Douglass was dragging her back from it. The first thing she registered was something serpentine and slimy. Then as flashlights dropped all over it, she realized it was six feet tall, drenched in blood, and crowned in a close-fitting, almost medieval helmet with no eye slits that had been bolted to its skull. Cockroaches were swarming around its legs, and it had a long and rusted spear dripping in moldy feathers and beads. Etched into the backs of his hands were the executioner god's familiar Seal.

The long tongue writhed curiously through the air. Behind it, a second monster with a long triangular helm was also contemplating them.

Then James was between her and the monsters, and firing off a warning shot with his pistol. "His guards!" Douglass hissed in realization, aiming his weapon as well. "He made them into these!"

James fired a second bullet, then a third, then paused.

The whole group hesitated, because neither creature had advanced or even seriously lifted its weapon. Laura gaped at them in horror; or at least at what she could see of them past her father's shoulder. "Oh my god," she mumbled. "Oh my _god_."

"They're not moving," Murphy hissed.

"You shouldn't stay there," came a childish voice. Heads swiveled towards an open doorway leading off into the school gymnasium. Little Walter was standing there, fussing with the hem of his shirt in both hands, half his face covered in black ooze. "I don't think they'll stay like that long. Come on!" He turned around and waddled into the darkness of the gym.

As a terrified unit, the party followed them. The two executioners stayed behind, heads cocked to the side, tongues tasting the air.

* * *

They didn't see little Walter once they were inside the gymnasium, but a door in the rear of the room had been opened, and the group quickly took the hint. James closed the doors behind them, his face drained of color; Eileen helped them, her low opinion of the man quite forgotten. Laura, for her part, didn't say a word.

The group found themselves in an exercise equipment storage room for the gym, filled with balls, wrestling mats, kites, and toys. A door to the school playground was locked shut, but another leading out into a side hall of the school had been opened. The group followed, eventually finding themselves in a staff room for bus drivers and janitors. With no more doors leading out, they voluntarily shut themselves up inside it.

"Those things," Laura whispered at last, horrified. James looped an arm about her shoulders and hugged him to her. For the first time in years, she genuinely hugged him back.

"Our little informant's gone missing," Douglass noted and then looked to Henry. "Should we leave the weapon and get the hell out of here?"

Henry frowned, uncertain. He looked to Eileen for a moment and then glanced around the room. There was a water cooler, a refrigerator for beverages, a small TV set and remote control, and a radio. Past the chairs and lined up against the rear wall was a collection of artwork from the students, a collection of Christmas-related gifts, and a few mugs. Mixed in with these items, Henry spotted a line of dolls, with one representative missing. He took a few steps towards the display, then turned around and surveyed the room again.

"Walter?" he called.

There was no response. Henry frowned; Eileen had given Walter his doll sometime in his teens, and so Henry had never seen the child version with a doll.

"Walter, what's happened to Heather?"

"Sister's safe..." came a slightly indolent response, "At least, that's what it looks like."

Eileen tensed at the sound of that voice. Little Walter had greatly disturbed her, but the sound of an older Walter Sullivan... It felt for a moment like his voice was crawling into her brain again. She leaned against the wall and breathed heavily. Henry saw her and frowned, but this was a very important conversation.

"Is she nearby?" Henry asked. "We're trying to get something to her. Can you help us?"

"No need," came the disinterested response. "She's very close. Just leave it anywhere, I suppose. She's deep, not far."

This wasn't quite like Walter. Henry waited to see if he'd add anything.

"You're safe at the Lighthouse, you know. Because of her. Maybe you should stay there?"

Douglass came up beside Henry, looking perplexed for where the voice was coming from. "Any idea why he's been helping us?" he asked.

Murphy had settled Elle down gently on one of the tables. She was stirring slightly and he was finding the contact more and more unsettling. "That kid," he asked Eileen tentatively. "You know what's going on?"

"Not really," she whispered. "Walter's _dead_. He's from Silent Hill and he... he... Well he was _no__t_ friendly."

Walter made an annoyed noise. "Maybe I'm not 'helping' you," he complained.

Douglass lifted a brow. "Then why'd you stop the executioner monsters?" he asked of the air. He was not expecting Walter's reaction. The dead man manifested suddenly in a rush of ash and dust. He advanced on Douglass aggressively, causing the older man to stumble backwards into the tables and accidentally sit on them.

"I did NOT!" Sullivan snapped viciously. Alarmed, Henry grabbed the serial killer's arm, trying to keep him from getting closer to and perhaps hurting Douglass. Walter jumped, looked at him, looked to the hand, and then looked back to his face. The taller man then deflated slightly, shrinking into himself, clutching a doll to his chest as if hiding from Henry. Henry released him as and retreated a step or two, noting that Walter was slicked with a few gobs of black, but otherwise appeared unharmed.

"Walter..." Henry hesitated. "Do you know what's going on?"

Sullivan pouted. "No," he mumbled unhappily. "Nothing makes sense."

Eileen gave a strangled laugh. Walter peered at her in confusion, and then seemed to notice the other party members for the first time. Murphy looked very uncomfortable. Elle was just waking up, a confused and pained expression on her face. Laura had looked in his direction and seemed hopeful rather than distressed at the sight of him. James was still pained; Travis was watching him stonily. At the sight of all of them, Walter looked down and scuffed his feet over the ground nervously.

"My dad's been sick since whatever it was you did," Laura finally said. "What happened?"

Walter looked up at Laura. He seemed to mellow a little bit, and then looked back to his feet. "He helped sister summoned the executioner," Walter mumbled. "You all did."

Travis stiffened. James paled a little bit more.

"...Only she didn't do it like she should have. So it didn't kill her yet," Walter added, sounding upset. "You're all still in danger. And now it had to strike a bargain, so..."

"What's it after?" Travis asked.

"Justice," Walter answered cryptically. "She's a witch, you know. Justice comes to all naughty little children..." Elle was now staring at him with wide eyes, a nursery rhyme dancing in her head.

"I saw it," James managed. "It was killing cultists."

"Of course." Walter giggled. "Ask little Holloway. The demon hates all humans. The only reason he can't destroy the world is because God foresaw this and wrapped him up tight in her love to stop him from hurting us."

"It hates all humans, but it didn't kill Heather?" James asked. They should have known Walter would use their desire to contact Heather as a way to get her killed. But seeing as it hadn't worked, he figured he ought to understand why.

Walter smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "The witch is special; she isn't just human, she's a _blasphemer_. Her sin is special. And she denied the truth so, she'll have to learn that the hard way."

Douglass grimaced at the religious prattle but didn't exactly want to confront the spectre. He scooted slowly to the side, trying to get farther away so he felt comfortable standing up again. "What do you mean she denied the truth?" he asked. "The truth about what?"

"Do you know why she's there?" Walter asked coyly, looking to Henry. "You should know. You're observant."

"To kill that bastard Edwin and stop the cult," Douglass growled. "Right?"

Henry frowned. "Valtiel," he said slowly, earning him startled looks for the rest of the party. "Edwin was half the reason, yes. But the other half was Valtiel."

Walter smiled. "Valtiel is the right hand of God," he admonished. "She can't have _him_. She wants one of his avatars, something of flesh, one she messed with to behave in a way she liked. Trouble is once the truth was made clear, her puppet no longer really existed. So what she wants is delusional."

"Wait a minute, what are you talking about?" Douglass growled. "What 'Valtiel?'"

"Henry," Travis said. "What didn't you tell us?"

Walter smiled. Henry blinked curiously at the dead man for a moment, then looked at the rest of the group. "Months ago, Heather befriended a monstrous creature from Silent Hill, who had found her and who behaved benevolently towards her. This creature was her 'boogieman,' counterpart to your butcher or James's Red Pyramid. The creature gave its name as 'Valtiel.' Valtiel is also the name of the cult metatron—an angelic attendant to God."

"You gotta be shitting me," Douglas muttered in alarm.

"Alex and Heather did not rescue Elle Holloway alone. Heather solicited Valtiel's help. He led them through Silent Hill post-haste, in a frantic attempt to get to Elle before she was executed. When they emerged and we were allowed to speak with them and take Elle into our care, Valtiel wasn't with them. I had surmised something had happened to him."

"God's Scribe took back what was God's," Walter explained smugly. "Heather knows the truth but denies it. She's tried to do the same with the executioner; she wants to control its skin while avoiding the red wrath behind it. Demons aren't as forgiving as angels... she's about to find that out the hard way. No one can _control_ the Executioner, only release him for a short while in a certain direction. He listens to God alone; and he can't be tricked by mortal blasphemy."

"What do you mean, 'she wants to control?'" Henry asked, trying to juggle both the conversation and multiple implied accusations from his party members.

"She remembers what it means to be Alessa," Walter laughed. "To control; to exercise her will, to defy God. The executioner will show her the folly of trying to control him."

"Then why are you so upset?" Laura asked. Walter blinked and turned to look at her, as Travis fixed Henry with a long, stern look. Henry shrugged helplessly; he hadn't known how to begin.

Although James tried to stop her, Laura walked past her father's restraining touch and moved up to Walter Sullivan. The dead man frowned, brows drawing together.

"Laura..." James begged, then went quiet when she gave him a glance. She looked back up at Walter, and noticed the serial murder was fixated on her, and his smug mask of religious fervor seemed to have dropped away again.

"You wouldn't be helping us if you really felt like that," she told him.

Walter shrunk down and looked around guiltily like he wanted to escape.

"And what's this crap all over you?" she pointed to the black ooze.

At that he couldn't help but giggle, and it was a perverse sound. "I've been a very naughty, naughty boy," he cooed dumbly.

"Yeah, well, all kids are sometimes," she offered. "You going to be okay?"

He laughed. "How am I even here now?" he asked, then looked at Henry with wide and almost frightened eyes. "She's different," he said suddenly, his voice sounding hollow. "Why is she different? She does things that can't be done. Why am I so close to being safe?"

Bombarded by questions both silent and verbal, Henry was at a loss for answers.

"Hey," Laura called as she reached up and grabbed Walter Sullivan's shoulders, turning the tall man back to look at her. Walter twitched violently and then blinked at her in surprise once more. "What's up?" she asked earnestly.

He frowned at her, eyes confused and sad. "Something's _wrong_," he said.

"Can you try and explain it to us simply?" she asked him, hopefully.

He hesitated, biting his lower lip and looking off to the side for a moment. Then he looked back at her and gave his best shot, not wanting to disappoint her. "It's sister," he said slowly. "I thought she was just Alessa, strong enough to destroy Silent Hill. But she's not, she's something else. She came back different. They can all smell it. She's even protecting you all."

"Is that why those two monsters didn't hurt us?" Laura asked in confusion.

"You can't control a _demon!" _Walter hissed. "Even angels can't!"

"So what happened?" Laura inquired.

Walter frowned unhappily. "I don't know," he mumbled.


	43. Crimson Helm

When Heather Mason regained conscious, everything around her was dark, and her head throbbed with how she'd overtaxed her abilities. There was some dull red ambient light which suggested she was still in the Otherworld hell. Gradually she became aware that she was lying on the ground, and that she was caked in blood, rust, filth, and ash. There was a heat beside her; a living, breathing heat.

_Samael_. Heather calmed down a little bit at the realization of his presence, and tried to gain her bearings. _Need a light. _She reached up groggily for her shoulder flashlight, fumbled for a moment, and then got it on. It illuminated a giant steel dome above her. For a moment she didn't remember how the dome had gotten there. Then, amazed, she rolled over and looked at her Pyramid Monster.

The creature had not moved where he had originally fallen, and she was wormed up against his side. The forward angle of his helmet stuck straight up in the air and lolled slightly away from her. For a moment she was concerned that he might be dead; his condition was _awful_ and he was laying atop a Seal of the Metatron she'd made with copious amounts of his blood. But no. On further inspection, his chest was rising and falling in slow, even measures. If his ribs had been damaged in the pendulum collision, then they must have healed already. Most of his lacerations had closed.

Heather winced and slowly dragged herself up into a kneeling position. Her head was pounding and her whole body felt like shit. "Pyramid Thing?" she mumbled, then winced at the impact of her voice, which sounded quite loud to her aching head. The monster gave a quick little intake of breath, probably more at the sound of her voice than in any recognition of the name. Heather shuddered. "You're alive." She mumbled, then chuckled weakly. "I don't think anything can kill you." The helmet lolled weakly in her direction. She smiled and leaned in close, brushing her fingers over the red mesh cage. "I wasn't taking my chances, though."

The Pyramid Thing was quiet, though he seemed to be watching her intently. He shifted his wounded arm into a weak circle about where she was sitting, and that was familiar very. It felt like how he'd behaved at the Lighthouse. She smiled almost tenderly and dabbed at one of his wounds with her fingers. "You tend to get cut up often," she teased, rubbing her neck where it was sore from how he'd man-handled her earlier. "You should try to stop that, you know. It can't be good for you."

After a bit, the monster's tongue writhed out and slid up to her face. The tongue seemed to have no coordination or weakness issues at all. It snaked dryly over her cheek and then looped gently and non-threateningly around the back of her neck. He seemed to like her hair. Heather brushed her knuckles against the thankfully non-slimy, non-oily, non-oozy tongue, and then turned her head and looked up at the dome they were trapped under.

"Is there a way out or in?" she wondered. Then, as he couldn't answer that question for her, she got up and slowly moved around, feeling the metal surface. The Pyramid Thing grunted and fussed, trying to move. She turned around and made a settle-down gesture. "Easy," she reassured. "Easy, it's a small dome. I'm not going to get eaten."

The monster struggled to rise and failed miserably. After a moment, he sagged back into the ground. It was all he could do to keep the tip of the helmet vaguely pointed in her direction. Heather watched him for a moment to make sure he wouldn't overtax himself. Then she went back to inspecting the dome. It wasn't solid metal; the rig had deformed considerably, though, and there was no clear breach point she could climb out through. If there was a weak point, the Pyramid Monster would have to help her find it. Heather knocked gently on the metal dome in a few places, nodded to herself, and then returned to her monster.

"Just rest," she told him, taking a knee and crouching down at his side. "This will have to be our safe place for the night."

The tongue reached out for her immediately, coiling about her arm and knee and wrapping about her elbow. It was not a firm or controlling grasp. He was making it just for the sake of being in contact with her. Heather's face softened as she observed the appendage. "The last thing I remembered you rammed me like an enraged rhino when I mentioned Xipe," she murmured. "Did I die?"

She received no answer, not even a growl. Heather tried to reconcile the monster who had forcefully controlled her neck through the fight with Xipe with the thing that now clung affectionately to whatever part of her he could reach. She sighed, realizing she might never figure out what exactly had happened. Why had Samael attacked her in the first place? Had Valtiel gotten to her before she'd died? How? Why had she woken up in such a strange place? Why had Xipe been on hand and ready to drag her off the second she'd woken up? And what on earth had been going on with that 'vision' she'd had of Xuchibara?

"I... I..." she had nothing to say. There was no normal way of handling this. Silent Hill was being a jerk. Nothing made sense. Her Pyramid Monster's personality was as holy as Swiss cheese, and might have hinged entirely on his proximity to either Xucibara or Heather Mason's Seals of the Metatron.

_No! Bad thoughts!_

If the Pyramid Head was nothing more than a reflection, a doll, a puppet co-piloted by Silent Hill and Xuchibara, then Valtiel was _also_ just a doll. Just a manifestation seen through the tinted lens of the Silent Hill manifestation process. She refused that. She refused it unless it could be _proven. _But then why was he acting so docile now, like he had acted in the Lighthouse?

"Samael, can Xipe control you?" she asked. A wave of surprise, then anger coiled through the demigod, followed by a strange lull. Heather frowned at him uncertainly. "I know the answer now," she decided, and a little smirk touched her lips. "The answer is: no, you can kick Xipe's ass. Also, you hate hearing your name, but I don't know what else to call you. Hearing it twenty times over the course of a day must have driven you up the wall. And right now you're docile because you've had the stuffing kicked out of you and you're too tired to fuss much."

The monster watched her quietly, and offered no input. She smirked and shook her head, looking off at nothing. "Well, whatever. You came for me. I don't care how freakishly ass-creepy you are," she told him, "or that you only half exist. If I had a cookie to give you, you'd deserve it." She looked back down at him. "I call you Samael, but maybe I shouldn't. You're something all your own. I just don't know what name you'll respond to." She gently touched the metal grate, then his wounds. "I want to fix these but... But I don't have any supplies. I can't even wash the blood off us. You'll be okay?" The creature's tongue rubbed gently against the skin of her arm, almost reassuringly. She gave it a gentle pat.

Trapped in this dome with him and nothing else to occupy her mind, she felt her curiosity mounting. After a moment, she moved her fingers back to his wounds. Abruptly she reoriented herself to feel about his neck. Valtiel had a thick covering of a black and rubbery material that ran from the base of his skull down over his shoulders and upper chest. The Pyramid creature had a similar rubbery material crusting over the underneath of the helmet and the upper length of his throat. As she felt over the material, the Red Pyramid grunted weakly and lifted up the least-maimed of his two arms, clutching almost feebly at Heather's arm. He didn't try to restrain her. The rubbery material at his throat seemed to almost fuse into the metal of his helmet, forming a perfect seal. But Valtiel's smock had come off with dedication...

_Can the helmet come off?_

Curiosity hit her like a wave. With nothing to do, no quest to embark on, no one to save, nothing to hide from, and nothing to kill, Heather was suddenly desperate to take action of any kind. The helmet might have actually been fused to his body, in which case it was no more removable than Valtiel's burnt face. Still, she felt some investigation was warranted. Skin had existed beneath Valtiel's smock, and so it stood to reason that a head existed beneath a Pyramid Thing's helmet. Although, Silent Hill definitely had something for facelessness.

Most of the creatures Heather fought lacked a definitive face. Facelessness made a creature less of a person and more of an _idea_, and since everything in Silent Hill was a manifestation of the subconscious, it made sense for everything in Silent Hill to be faceless. If Pyramid Thing did have a head beneath the helmet, its face would make the monster less terrifying, less pure. That didn't mean he lacked a _head, _however. Would he look like Valtiel beneath the helm? She wanted to know. Her fingers dug about the rubber, examining every inch of the film's seemingly flawless fusion with the metallic helm.

At long last, her fingers found a small pocket in between the rubbery material and the edge of his helmet. She blinked and dug into the depression, and then carefully pulled.

The Pyramid Thing let out several hard gasps, as if startled or distressed by what she was doing. Heather murmured something she hoped was reassuring, changed her positioning to gain some leverage, threw her arm across the front of the helmet to grab onto it from the other side, and pulled a little harder. She heard a strange crackling, sucking, spurting noise, and then slowly the massive helmet budged slightly. The movement was minuscule; the helmet was tremendously heavy. Was carrying it painful? She supposed it was; she supposed that was the _point_ of it. But despite that, the Pyramid Thing's first course of action was to grab at the helmet, trying to pull its heavy weight back that one inch towards his shoulders. Heather batted at his hands and then felt once more along the rubbery underside. New cracks had opened up in between the rubbery material and the metal, and she could push her fingers through gaps where the helmet met his throat. There was only a very small and snug opening into the helmet, a collar that dug tightly into the monster's neck. It could not be removed by simply lifting it off of him.

Heather frowned, momentarily stumped. From the look of his helmet, it had been welded right down the center while on his head, permanently encasing him in it. But then her attention was drawn to the thick bolts holding the helmet together. A pity, if she had a wrench she could have- ah. Wait a minute. Heather looked down at herself and rummaged about her person. There, belted at her side, was the rusty old wrench she'd picked up before Xipe had jumped her.

The wrench had developed so much rust around the adjustable head, she couldn't have manipulated it if she'd tried. It appeared to be a standard ten inch wrench with the head opened up to accommodate a one inch bolt. Given that this was a subconsciously-generated wrench in a surreal landscape, there was a chance... a chance that coincidence...

Heather lifted up the wrench to the Pyramid Monster's helmet. As she lined the jaws up snugly with one of the this hex-shaped bolts, she saw that they were exactly one inch across. The wrench was perfectly adjusted. Smirking curiously, Heather tore off the bottom of her pant leg and used it to bind the wrench's handle.

The bolts were never meant to be undone, so she would have given anything for some type of lubricant, be it WD-40 or simple cooking oil. As it was she had a lot of blood on hand, and that would have to do the trick for now. With this in mind, she positioned the wrench around the nut, braced her feet against the ground and heaved all of her weight into turning the wrench. For a moment, as with Valtiel's laces, it seemed the bolts would not give way. Rusted metal screws could practically fuse with the material they were bolted to, she knew. But then there was a low pitched, tortuous squeak, and the bolt slipped free from its rusty moorings. The Pyramid thing twitched and jerked, his better arm grasping convulsively at the air. Heather set the first bolt carefully off to the side and smirked in triumph.

"Let's get you on your side so I can see what I'm doing," she coaxed the monster, and then got one hand under his helmet and the other under his shoulder and tried to roll him over. For a moment, Heather was forced to acknowledge there was no way she could possibly turn the monster on her own; he was as heavy as a horse even without his helmet, and he was very uncooperative. Just as she was about to give up, he seemed to realize what she was trying to do, and slowly rolled onto his better shoulder. His helmet rocked onto the side facet of the pyramid, a position which seemed to take less energy from the creature to maintain, and which exposed the underneath clearly for Heather's curiosity.

She examined what bolts were available for her to unscrew, and then selected the three largest and put her wrench to work. The third almost refused to come off, but with some cunning leveraging against the bulk of his helmet (she put her foot on it), she managed to get it to turn. There was a slight pop when the final one came free, and Heather made a victorious sound. She dropped the wrench and felt through the rubbery material at the base of the helm. A panel had just come loose.

The Pyramid Thing made breathy noises, fussing slightly as she carefully worked the panel free of its grimy moorings. Then, with a little snap, the panel released the underside of the helmet, and Heather drew it away.

The first thing Heather observed, looking up into the underneath of the helm, was that the helmet itself had a fleshy interior. It was filled with clotted blood and fibrous material, so much so that any head or other internals were quite occluded. Heather touched the material curiously, worried she was going to be disappointed. It was possible the entire pyramid really _was_ his head, in which case trying to remove it was certainly a bad idea. "Samael?" she queried, earning a bewildered growl from her patient. "Hey, if I'm in jeopardy of hurting you... You've got to stop me, okay?"

The monster didn't reply, scraping at the paneling of the helmet in a way that sent mixed signals. On one hand, he was definitely trying to pull the helmet back into its previously snug position. On the other hand, the way he scratched at it suggested feelings of imprisonment. Wincing at his distress, she decided she'd try to be as gentle as she could. She was going to try and pull him apart from the helmet, but it was possible the stuff inside it was fragile; she didn't want to hurt him. Heather got down on both knees directly beside his head. She wormed one knee underneath his shoulder and chest, and braced the other leg against the helmet. Then, cupping her hands gently around the base of his neck, she tugged gently in an effort to separate him from it. At first, there was no give at all, and the fibers in the helmet clung tightly to him. Watching the monster for any sign that she was hurting him, Heather reached up into the helmet and started trying to shove the fibers away from his throat. They were tough, but they yielded with a little bit of struggling, tearing, and determination. She tugged gently at him again, worming her fingers up into the helmet.

Heather struggled and writhed about to get more leverage, but still she was making no noticeable progress. Part of that, she thought grumpily, might have been the Pyramid Monster who was still clinging to the helmet. She was about to give up when suddenly he reversed his gesture, and actually helped her. He pushed feebly at the front of the helmet. There was a loud spurt and a release of tension. The lack of resistance caused her to stumble fast and hard, and her sudden motion freed something vaguely ovoid from the confines of the helm. Heather yelped, startled, and then leaned curiously over what she presumed was the Pyramid Thing's head.

It wasn't pretty.

The monster was laying on his side, but from what she could see, his face was nothing but a mass of organs and boils. Thick, fleshy tubes jutted out of the structure at almost random points and trailed back up into the helmet, confirming her previous suspicion that the helm might be necessary to his functioning. Still, the Pyramid Thing _did_ have a head, hideous as he might have been. One of those fleshy tubes plugged into the back of his skull, but around and beside that the scalp actually sported a bit of scraggly black hair.

Heather covered her mouth and suppressed a gag, but then chuckled slightly and stroked gently over the many tubes. "You poor thing," she cooed sympathetically. "How's the world taste without a prison on your head?"

The Pyramid thing quivered, simultaneously distressed and excited. She watched the grotesque head distend as, presumably, a jaw opened. From the other side of its face, the side turned towards the ground, a long black tongue emerged and writhed curiously through the air. Heather smiled pityingly, gently touching the appendage and letting it wrap about her fingers.

"That thing weighs a ton, and based on the welts around your shoulders it hurts like hell," she said softly. "You shouldn't have to wear something like that. But I guess for now there's no helping it. It's not your head, but it's pretty vital to your construction."

The monster shuddered again, soaking in the differences of the outside world. It could feel air against the flesh of its face. There was no wind, but her warm breath stirred the follicles of its limited hair. In all its existence, in all of Xuchibara's existence, this had never once happened. The helm was never designed to be removed; Just like the chains were never meant to be broken.

Heather touched the hideously formed non-face gently, and was relieved that at least he did not seem particularly vulnerable or sensitive. "If I could," she said slowly, "I'd bring you out of this place and pull this contraption off somewhere you could feel the sun. _That _would be a treat, I'm sure. Like hot water was for Valtiel."

The creature's shuddering seemed to lessen slightly, as if for once he was actually tuning in to the sound of her voice, and found whatever she was saying- or at least her tone- to be pleasant. Heather smiled wistfully, wondering how she was ever going to escape Silent Hill when she entrusted her life to bipolar monster-gods and was desperate to 'rescue' the puppet body of a deity.

_No. Can't think like that. Can't undermine yourself. You just saw Valtiel. You saw him react to you. You know he's yours. You have to try, and... and..._

_What about the very monster you're currently fussing over? Can he leave Silent Hill? Every moment he freaks out is a reminder that he's an extension of Xuchibara, and Alessa's just a shitty interpreter._

_Gotta stop that._

_Can't. This is what being depressed is like, Heather. This is what it's like when you watch someone kill your partner. You don't mend. You just cover up the holes in the floor and try not to walk over them anymore. And when you do, you fall into the basement and break your legs and have a hell of a time getting out again._

"If it were possible... No, if it _is_ possible, I want you the same way I want Valtiel. I think you'd be a bit harder to hide in the rest of the world, but..." a smile played over her lips. "Halloween would be the highlight of my life..." It didn't seem real. Silent Hill was going to take this from her somehow. She could _barely_ imagine what getting Valtiel back would be like, and she'd lived with him for what felt like ages.

Heather closed her eyes, gently caressing over the Pyramid Monster's shoulder, throat, and 'cheek'. After a bit, she opened her eyes again and looked down at the monster. He'd started fussing, tugging feebly at the helm in an effort to replace it. At the same time, his heart rate had accelerated as if the thought of replacing it upset him. He _need__ed_ the helmet. It was normality. It was the way he'd been designed. But... but by the way he writhed and twitched... Heather had a strong suspicion the Pyramid Monster was genuinely _claustrophobic_. As if she needed any more proof that the cult god was a horrific, manipulative, sadistic bitch.

"Alright, I was just curious," she assured him, patting his shoulder. "Let me help you." As he pulled downward at the helm, Heather took up her previous position on her knees and leaned over to wrap her hands about the base of his neck. Then, seeing how that wasn't going to work, she slipped her hands up to the sides of his head. As her lower hand grasped the opposite side of his face (the side the tongue had come from), her fingers came to rest against what was clearly a cheek and orbital bone, and she felt eyelashes brush against her finger. Heather froze.

His head was asymmetrical. In a _big_ way!

Heather hesitated, surprised and suddenly very curious. She scooped both of her hands underneath the monster's head, and started to turn it. Tubes and organs brushed against one another, and she watched them carefully to make sure none of them broke. She still wasn't certain if they were fragile or not. After a few seconds she stopped and rearranged a few of them, and got him to move the helmet slightly.

Slowly, bit by bit, the Pyramid Thing's head turned towards her. The other half of his face, the side that had been pressed against the ground, was different. There _was _an eye, she felt it long before she managed to turn the head around! An eye with a gray iris, she now saw, and a clearly defined cheek bone, both humanoid! Most of the mouth had been replaced by a thick tube, and there were pustules here and there, but- Heather froze. Gray? No. Not _just_ gray.

Excitement back-flipped into numb and frantic terror. She had a flashback, to a plane, to a tense but exciting time, and a man buckling himself into the seat behind her.

_Heather blinked and reached forward, touching his chin and pulling his face towards her. "You have cats' eyes," she suddenly realized. He blinked._

_"What?" he asked, surprised and pulling back from her touch._

_"Your eyes are two different colors. They're gray around the pupil with a brown outer rim."_

_He seemed a little flustered but smiled awkwardly, the first smile she'd seen in days. "It's called Heterochromia. Central Heterochromia. Was that what you were staring at?"_

An identical eye looked up at her now, gray around the pupil and brown at the rim.

"Oh my God," Heather nearly vomited out the words, staring down in awe and horror. Peering out from the less damaged side of the Pyramid Monster's face, a single heterochromatic eye watched her curiously. The eye was framed in short black eyelashes and seated underneath an undamaged eyebrow. There were jsut enough scraps of black hair to suggest a forehead and hairline.

Heather knew those features as well as she'd know her own. Maybe _more _so, because they'd been incinerated into her subconscious by force of trauma. This was the face she now saw every time she closed her eyes. Her latest failure; the latest death. "Oh my _God_, oh God, oh _God,_" she pleaded with Silent Hill for mercy. "_Alex_..."

The monster's gaze centered on her face instantaneously, signifying complete and utter recognition of the name. Heather took in a sharp breath of air and then had to bite her arm to keep herself from bawling. Alex. Not Samael. Not James. Not Walter. Not Travis. Alex. That was his name.

Heather had to look away, sobbing hard and momentarily covering her face. The Pyramid Thing twitched and fidgeted in distress. She felt a tongue coil tightly about her arm.

_It's not Alex. Not Alex! Shaped in Alex's Form. Alex's Boogieman, holding a mirror up to his soul-!_

_It looks exactly like him. It-he-it? appeared the day Alex died!_

Heather took in a hard gulp of air, shakily looking back at the monster. Most of his face seemed paralyzed, but the eye move fluidly, tracking her motions. The flesh around the eye, the cheek, and the eyelid all were alive and animated. This one eye was the single most human characteristic she had ever seen on a Silent Hill monster.

Shaking uncontrollably, she reached forward and slowly touched his face. His mouth was terrible, a tube bordered by a slit leading into a jaw filled with jagged, misshapen teeth; this was the hovel from which the tongue protruded. His nose was largely eclipsed with folds of skin and tubes, but at least a quarter of it was clearly defined along the side. Her fingers brushed over these features and then stroked gently over the monster's cheek and under the eyelid. The eye half-closed in response to her attention.

"How...?" she whispered. "You're not his, you're not the one that was made for him. You're _different_, and I know that because I met it and I can tell the difference, you- you-..."

His bad temper. His efficient, over-the-top violence. She remember watching Alex Shepherd disarm a man in an alleyway, remembered perceiving a distinct split between a soldier personality and a recovering trauma victim. She remembered Alex asking her if his hatred had killed his father.

"You weren't made _for_ Alex," she whispered in sudden understanding, "You came _from _him. You're like the memory of Alessa I saw on the merry-go-round. Like the part of James t-that drove into Toluca Lake, y-you..." She swallowed hard, choking back a cry. "You were shed and left behind. You're part of the soldier, the part that couldn't forgive them- his parents." She barely managed, "Y-you w-were _p-part_ of_ him-m_. " _Not just made in his image._

Tears were streaming down her face. The monster's tongue slipped up from her arm, stretching out that the tip might brush against her cheek. Heather recoiled at the touch, then stared at the appendage in horror. It writhed for a moment, then hesitantly dipped closer, and swiped the tears from her face.

Heather could only manage a startled, inarticulate cry. Then, as the tongue dipped close to flick more tears from her face, she was suddenly overwhelmed by many interrelated memories. She remembered the night after the Pyramid Thing had carried her home to the Lighthouse. She'd thrown herself protectively over the monster and stitched shut every laceration, mended him a way she couldn't mend Alex... And he'd put an arm about where she'd sat and licked tears from her face like Valtiel had once done...

Heather gave a guttural cry and then scrambled away from the Pyramid Monster. The monster made a similarly startled noise and his pupil contracted to remain focused on her, the eyebrow furrowing worriedly. That small fragment of human expression! So alive, so real, so familiar!

_No! No no no no no!_ Heather whirled away from him and came face to face with the dome. She clawed at it as if it were some horrible prison, because she wanted to be anywhere, _anywhere_, but in the same room as this horrible confrontation. Some sardonic, detached part of herself laughed, because if Heather had watched a character behave this way in a horror movie, she would have hollered at them to get a grip. This was _unrealistic_. She hadn't even freaked out this bad when her dad had died.

_Humans are emotions. Humans don't make sense._

She had screamed Alex Shepherd's name the very moment she'd summoned the monster. The first time she'd encountered him out in hell, he had calmed down and embraced her when she'd mentioned Alex. In fact, he had responded each and every last remaining time she'd ever found the strength to utter her partner's name. But, like with Harry and Maria and Alessa, this wasn't_ really Alex_.

And yet, simultaneously, it _was_. All that remained of him. It was too much to think about. Her brain was melting. She couldn't leave, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't stop crying.

The Pyramid Monster writhed and mumbled helplessly, trying to get his good arm close to her, but she was now much too far away.

Heather was almost hysterical. She could barely think, much less look back that horribly distorted face. She clawed at her hair and face, and shrieked into her palms. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. He had promised to protect her, and she had let him die. Silent Hill, Silent Hill, you wretched, filthy bitch. Only one word managed to make it through her screams as two days of repressed memories and carefully nurtured strength came crumbling down in an instant.

The monster did not look away from her for a moment; trembling with his own powerlessness, he could only rumble and whine in sympathetic misery.

_Am here. Can hear you. Not leave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, back to that explanation that the survivors of Silent Hill have multiple valid timelines, and that 'some part' of James Sunderland drove himself into the lake, and that some part of Alex was institutionalized and the other part joined the army; with no certainty about which one was 'real...' But if all the endings of SIlent Hill Homecoming happened, in some sense, to some part of Alex either retained or discarded, then the 'Boogieman' ending of Silent Hill Homecoming would mean...


	44. Back into the Breach

Moans echoing down the hallways suggested that Edwin's summoned 'executioners' were now moving about.

"We should get outta here," Douglass whispered, glancing nervously towards the door. James, Murphy, and Travis all instantaneously looked like someone had dropped ice cubes down the back of their shirts.

"What about the sword?" Eileen asked, just as hushed.

"We'll have to just leave it here, like Walter suggested," Henry whispered in return. "Travis? Travis."

The truck driver had been staring unnerved at the doorway leading out of the staff lounge, but when Henry spoke his name a second time he seemed to instantaneously compose himself. He gave a curt nod and then walked over to a supply closet and quickly stashed the katana inside. "Let's move," he told the group. "Melee in the front, guns in the back. Keep Elle and Laura in the middle."

Laura made a face about being grouped in with Elle, but then she was one of the only party members who didn't have a firearm. She had half a mind to grab that samurai sword and put it to real use, but wagered the party wouldn't be pleased. She looked back up at the Sullivan boy.

"So..." she said slowly. "What about you? You just going to disappear again?"

The young man blinked a few times, surprised by the question. When he didn't answer and James began waving her over to the rest of the group, she shrugged.

"Be safe, I guess?" She hurried to take her place.

Walter watched, bewildered.

The godless party assembled, counted to three, and then pushed into the hallway and made a straight line for the elementary school exit. As they left, Walter looked around and saw the corners of his room had begun to writhe; black tendrils stretching out from the shadows. Oil began seeping out of the seam where the floor tiles met the nearby walls; it flooded towards him ominously.

Walter Sullivan, undead serial killer and chosen of the Mother, watched that moving goo with fascination for a long moment, and clutched his dolly tightly to his breast. For a long moment, he considered holding still in submission to the natural course of things. Then he heard screams and shouts as _something_ waylaid the fleeing sinners.

Repent...

... or Defy?

* * *

Heather did not remember passing out. Consciousness found her curled up on the ground, on hard concrete. The world around her was gray, not red. She blinked slowly, waiting for comprehension, or, at least, for more information.

She was lying on a Halo of the Sun, and there was a soft light in the air. She was out of hell, in the Silent Hill Otherworld, out under the sky, and it was morning. It was also very cold.

Her body felt like lead.

She sat up slowly, her movements achy and tired. Survival instincts told her to look around, but she saw no monsters, cultists, or any other living things in her immediate surroundings. A slow glance behind her said she was in a slightly sheltered nook of pavement just outside the elementary school. It was maybe eight in the morning. There was a stone wall in front of her, hiding her from most of the street, and she was just beside the area where the school bus would pick up and drop off kids.

It took many minutes of leaden numbness for Heather to decide she was temporarily safe. She drew her knees up to her chest and weakly looped her arms about them. She stared quietly at the ground and shivered, tears slipping down her face.

She felt void of energy, and void of concrete thoughts. She felt weakened. The numbness was simultaneously painful and yet made it difficult to do anything to alleviate the pain. Unwilling to think very hard, Heather found herself experiencing the stimuli of life without really processing them: The chill fog against her skin, the texture of asphalt through her clothing, the red of the Halo of the Sun.

_I don't want to fight anymore. I wouldn't mind if you just killed me._

But of course, Silent Hill didn't. Silent Hill, queen bitch of the hells, remained calm and quiet. Not even a Lying Figure slithered by. And somehow that made everything even worse. Heather buried her face into her knees, daring the _Otherworld_ to randomly teleport a cultist behind her while she wasn't looking, or drop a Closer on her head. Nothing happened; and that continued to make everything worse.

Then she was crying again. She hiccupped and shuddered and whimpered. Her jaw trembled.

"C... come..." she mumbled, then hugged herself more tightly. "Come back," she plead, starting to rock a little. "Come find me. Please find me."

She strained her ears, listening. She listened for scratches or skitters; for nearby moans; for the whisper of a human voice; but Silent Hill was quiet in the early rays of morning. Her voice was catching. There was something on the tip of her tongue, trying to get loose; but she couldn't remember what it was. She didn't want to say it.

"Come back. F... find... I know you can find me..." Her arms tightened; she pressed her eyes so firmly into her knees she could imagine patterns in the darkness. "Alex, find me, I need you."

There was silence in her ears like a pressure for a great deal longer. She whispered, begged, prayed, and rocked. The minutes passed. Then, at the upper range of her hearing, she perceived a high. pitched. shriek.

Another. And then another. Slow and measured. The ground began to rumble slightly; the heavy sounds of footprints trembling her bones.

Heather looked up slowly as the Pyramid Monster rounded the stone wall, dragging his massive knife behind him. His red helmet had been replaced upon him as if she'd never removed it, but his body was crisscrossed with fresh white scars. He took one more step and then paused. The tip of the triangular helm swung low and he 'looked' quietly down at her. The Mason girl shivered, feeling incredibly small beside him.

He did not resemble Alex this way; he was far too inhuman. His musculature would have shamed a statue of Hercules, and arms were black to the elbow with coagulated blood. The stained and bloody butcher's smock clasped about his hips was probably made of human flesh. He was awful, faceless, voiceless; a demon, not a man. His black tongue slipped out from the confines of the helmet and twisted curiously through the air.

_He's blind. The helmet can't been seen through. Whatever means he uses to 'see,' it's not good enough for him to tell who I am. He has to smell the air or hear my voice to be sure._

Heather could imagine a pupil contracting behind that metal mesh, a black eyebrow furrowing uncertainly. Unobserved and blind, a heterochromatic eye nevertheless existed, and was likely, at that very moment, reflecting a wide range of complex and at times surprisingly human emotions.

A pang of agony wrenched through Heather's stomach. "Alex," she blurted. _You found me. I'm here. I know you can't see me, but I'm here._

The Pyramid Monster twitched in response to her voice, his tongue pausing momentarily before retracting. He dragged his knife about in a wide circle, turning his whole body to face her.

There he paused, considering her.

Maybe he was judging her to have finally lost her sanity, for daring to conflate him with the 'real' Alexander Shepherd.

* * *

The most effective weapon against these bastards was definitely Travis's axe, which Laura felt was slightly amusing given the fact that, in 'reality,' a gun could beat an axe any day of the week.

The 'executioner demon' was much slower than the truck driver, and Travis had managed to get in several big strikes at its helmet and glancing ones at its chess. It was bleeding and roaring, throwing its spear around with such gusto it was a wonder it hadn't beheaded anyone with the haft.

That was the good news.

The _bad_ news as that it currently had a fist curled tightly in Laura's hair and was dragging her around like a doll. She screamed and thrashed, clutching at its arm and trying to hold on to stop the constant yanking. Travis seemed agile enough not to hit her, but some of those axe blows had landed close. The other survivors were shooting at a second of the monsters, which seemed almost indifferent to the bullets aside from the fact that the force of the projectiles was keeping it at bay.

"The HELL do they want me for!?" she screamed. "I don't have anything to DO with this! They should be after one of you fuckers, not me!"

"Hang in there!" Douglass called, trying to get a good angle to shoot from without accidentally hitting Laura, which, okay, hurry hurry but also yeah go ahead and take your time please.

James was stalk white and had gone mute. He was trying to make grabs for her whenever Travis engaged with the thing. She cast her father a pleading look she would never have given to any other human being.

_I'm vulnerable, I need you, please save me._

"It's getting closer!" Eileen warned about the other creature. "You have to get her out!"

"We're trying!" Travis hollered back. "Murph, make an opening!" The newest member of their party lunged forward with James's gun, skidding to his knees and firing up at an angle to shoot the weapon up into the back of the monster's helmet. The creature reared back in surprise and Travis dived forward with his axe, trying to land a blow square on the thing's chest. It roared.

Seizing the opportunity, James grabbed on to Laura's scalp with one fist and brought a pocket knife straight through her hair.

_Daddy- HEY! That's going to- Augh! My hair! HOW COULD YOu- Oh fuck it, who am I kidding, take the hair! _

Laura stumbled after James as he yanked her back from the creature. A few strands of leftover hair pulled painfully taut and then snapped, bringing tears of pain to her eyes. A spear came slamming down into the space the duo had just been occupying.

Laura spun around to face the monster, and tried to make sense of all the moving party members. Murphy was quickly diving out from behind her ex-captor. Henry and Eileen were desperately trying to keep the other monster back; but the whole group had been trapped in a sort of pincer between them.

"Plan?" Murphy called to Travis as he managed to get back to them. It was to his credit he hadn't run; he'd had a clear shot to the door at one point.

"I need to reload!" Eileen called, dropping to one knee to do so, her Uzi shaking in her hands. Henry stepped between her and the monster, which had begun to advance. Then—of all times!—his handgun jammed. He gave it a glance of surprise and then spun about and grabbed his wife, hauling her back as the triangular-helmeted being advanced. Travis cursed under his breath. Douglass grabbed Eileen's other arm. The party went unexpectedly hushed as it tried to retreat into a defensible position and reload. Adrenaline had set in, and intense focus was the only alternative to panic.

Then a single gunshot—supernaturally loud—broke the silence.

Everyone jumped. The Executioner with the triangular helm reeled back as if it had been hit by something much larger than a bullet, more like a grenade. It lurched to the side, twitching slightly. Then both Boogeyman halted their pursuit, their helmets turning in unison to stare down a hall at where the lone gunshot had come from. As was only proper, everyone (that is, everyone except Travis, whom it seemed was not only the only survivor capable of standing toe-to-toe with an executioner, but also the only living thing present who could remain focused when confronted with a supernatural distraction) quickly looked to see what exactly had happened.

Standing down the hallway, with a smug and manic grin pulled tight across his closed lips and his messy yellow hair hanging in his face, an adult and doll-less Walter Sullivan stood in a dynamic posture, pointing a smoking firearm down the hallway, its barrel fixed squarely on one executioner's triangular helm.

"Well, _hello_," he purred. "Did that hurt?"

Travis barely managed to get himself, Murphy, and three other people out of the way in time, as both Executioners suddenly barreled towards Walter Sullivan like loosed trains, heedless of any injuries or weapons, as if possessed by the devil himself. Low, metallic roars welled up in their chests, shaking the walls of the buildings around them.

"Hurry now!" Walter called cheerfully past their mounting rage, "You probably shouldn't hang around much longer!"

"Let's go," Henry commanded in a surprisingly firm voice. The rest of the party moved almost as one in agreement, hurrying towards the doors.

"They're going to kill him!" Laura protested, her hair now a disaster. She'd have to shave it off and go butch for a bit or something.

"He's already dead!" Eileen disagreed, grabbing the girl's arm and dragging her along. For once she and James could agree on something; he grabbed Laura's other arm and did likewise.

* * *

There was absence. The absence lingered for a long time.

Then, the monster started to move. He stepped forward and hoisted the handle of his Great Knife high. With a firm jab, he pressed the tip into the concrete ground. He used it for balance as he knelt down rigidly to one knee. The motion was rough and graceless; he was top heavy due to the helmet and his leg joints were stiff.

Heather leaned back a bit, because even while crouched, he towered above her.

_Heavy quiet; the sound of breathing; the creak of metal and leather._

The monster reached forward and rotated his wrist, proffering her his open hand. Confused by the gesture, Heather looked from the stained palm and twitching fingertips back to the great red helm. She shifted her weight, hesitated, withdrew temporarily, and then at last loosed her arms from about her knees and reached out to place her hand in his.

The giant fingers closed about hers gently, firmly, awkwardly; so accustomed they were to performing one set of tasks that they had forgotten most everything about how to assist anyone. He heaved his weight onto his sword and stood, pulling Heather to her feet. When they were upright, he released her, lowered his hand, and stood back from her; his knuckles brushed over her shoulder as they went.

The fog rolled around them; sounds in the distance were growing darker as the _Otherworld_ slowly reawakened to the new dawn. A weak smile graced Heather Mason's lips, and she wiped her tears on her shirt sleeve.

"What now?" she asked him.

Her monster licked at the air for a moment, still watching her. Then he yanked his knife back out of the concrete and stepped past her, making his way up to the Elementary school doors. There he once more sniffed the air, assessing the location.

Heather frowned and slowly came up beside him. "I guess I have to start over," she said, looking first at the school and then back up at the Pyramid. "Silent Hill decided I'm not allowed to skip to the endings anymore." The Pyramid monster made a breathy sound that sounded like something between resignation, irritation, and acknowledgement.

Heather looked back at the Halo of the sun she'd woken up on, and frowned slightly. For a moment, back on that hellscape she'd awoken on, something other than Silent Hill had been in control. Xuchibara, Xipe, Lobsel Vith, Alessa... There was some kind of conflict going on between them. But for a moment, it had felt like... Like perhaps Heather herself had been exercising some kind of control or defiance. But the moment was over now.

"Well. Alright then." The Mason girl took in a deep breath and turned back towards the school and walked forward and up the stairs to the front doors of the building. A moment later she realized something was amiss; she didn't hear thunderous footsteps behind her. Heather paused and looked back at her monster, who was standing where she had left them. "You coming?" she asked uncertainly.

The Pyramid Head shifted his weight. The fingers of his empty hand twitched. Then a metallic rumble echoed from the depths of his helmet. He took a step back from the doorway and planted his knife back in the earth in front of him. He lifted both hands up to rest on the handle and then stood there like a sentinel, or perhaps like a beacon. The permanence and solidity of his pose suggested that he would not be moving forward.

"You're not coming with me?" she observed. "Is something restraining you?"

Muscles tensed. The Pyramid Thing growled slightly, almost grumpily. That was right: He had had an issue with her suggestion that Xipe could control him.

"Ehrg- I didn't mean it like that-" She paused, something occurring to her. "I felt Valtiel," she said suddenly. "I almost died, but he healed me. I thought that was strange because I'm not pregnant with any gods and he doesn't remember me, so he'd have no reason to... "

The monster didn't seem to be paying attention to her anymore, as his 'gaze' had drifted to a neutral position, but Heather finally managed to put two-and-two together and looked at him, her eyes widening in surprise.

"That was you. You nearly killed me, but then called Valtiel. You asked him to heal me."

The Pyramid Thing didn't answer her.

"Samael!" she called, winced, and then blinked in confusion when she didn't get a growl in return. Her monster seemed to glance briefly at her before looking back to attention. His lack of reaction, after nearly killing her, was frustrating because it broke with preexisting patterns.

Heather looked around helplessly, peered at the suddenly much more intimidating elementary school, and then at last looked up at the Pyramid Monster again, this time with an unhappy resentment. "It's what you are," she protested, frustrating with everything. "Isn't it? Samael, the demon, the executioner, Xuchibara, the Crimson God!"

That last title seemed to get his attention. He answered her with a low hiss, his shoulders tensing and his hands tightening dangerously over the hilt of his knife. For a moment he was little more than a simmering bundle of completely unfathomable disapproval.

Heather imagined a brow narrowed angrily over gray-brown eyes, and a familiar soldier's face drawn in bitter irritation. A shudder shook her from had to toe. Her throat went dry. "S... " She swallowed. The next thing she said took every scrap of her will, even though she'd already said it previously: "... Alex..."

The name had some kind of power over them both. His body visibly relaxed, his hands loosening over the butt of the knife handle; all hostility melting away into curious attention. A painful and yet hopeful sensation twisted about in her guts.

"Alex," she repeated softly, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "You're not really him," she mumbled. Her face scrunched up, a wave of sorrow cresting over her. "Just like Alessa isn't me. At best, you're Xuchibara. That's what you _are_! You wear the soldier's skin but you're not him- just a shadow, a thin veneer of discarded traits."

The monster shifted his weight, alternately tensing, grumbling, and only to back off a step as if unwilling to confront her. She was apparently confusing him. Good, because he'd done plenty of confusing her.

"You're not him. You are _not him_, you are not Alex Shepherd- not my Alex- not- not-" she struggled for words, glared at the floor, stomped a food and bit out her confusion, her anger: "You are NOT- you can't be- you will NEVER be- the guy I was starting to learn to love!" 

The Boogeyman stared at her.

Breathing heavily, overcome by emotion, Heather peered hesitantly back at him. When he didn't move or react, she looked away from him and took in long slow breaths. She counted to ten. She uncurled her fists. It didn't matter _what _he was. He responded to the name Alex, and usage of that name seemed to having a calming effect on him. She didn't _like _this, or want to use Alex's name this way, but it might save her in a bad situation.

When Heather finally looked back at the monster, she'd expected him to have lost interest and looked away, like he'd been halfway trying to do before she'd turned around and started yelling at him. Instead, he was 'staring' at her as if transfixed. 

The fingers of her hand twitched, remembering the touch of his palm as he'd pulled her to his feet. Like a ghost of sensation she recalled the brush of knuckles on her shoulder. A dying man drew a bloody heart on an operating theater's window pane. An arm slipped behind her back on a cold winter night on a Canadian skating rink. Moments melted together.

Heather staggered forward almost reflexively. She stepped down from the school doorway, descending back to her monster's side. She stepped past his blade and, though her arms were shaking and her survival instincts ought to have been throwing up red flags, the way his 'gaze' remained fixed on her kept her going. She touched her hands to his leathery skin, laying her palms flat against the spiderweb of white scars. If only the real Alex had been so unkillable. Their wounds were similar.

"What are you?" she breathed.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was that he was there, and for some reason he wasn't yet inclined to kill or abandon her.

Maybe he was a manifestation of her own determination, saved for later, for when she'd need it most.

Heather stepped closer, looping her arms around his thick waist and sinking temporary into the safe heat of him. She vaguely wondered what anyone would have said about this: To see her standing there on the steps of the Elementary school, burying her face into the rib cage of a Red Pyramid, clinging to him for comfort. And safety. _Safety._ From a psychological construct, a monster, an incarnation of hatred, a demonic god.

Maybe it didn't matter why, or how. Maybe all that mattered was the _what_. Maybe all that mattered was that the Red Pyramid held still for her; let her touch him; let him draw on his strength. Maybe all that mattered was the leathery tongue that coiled gently into her hair.

He was alive; warm. Somewhere in the back of Heather Mason's mind, deep in the subconscious, the olfactory part of her brain registered something precious beneath the coppery smell of blood and the pungent fumes of offal; a human smell that was familiar.

"Alex," she began, then repeated the name more strongly, accepting its usage, and lifted her head, "Alex. Alex?" He was still looking at her. "You promise to be here when I get back?"

The Pyramid Monster continued to stare for just a moment longer, but then the helmeted tip bobbed up and down, and he gave an affirmative rumble she felt through his bones. Heather stepped back from him slowly, her fingertips lingering for a moment; just to keep the sensation of physical contact. The tip of his helmet tracked her position as easily as if he could see.

"Okay," she murmured. She squared her shoulders. She took in a steadying breath. "Then I promise to come back."

The monster tilted his head. Heather quirked a weak but determined smile. Then she turned around, and resumed her journey. Steeling away everything, all pain, all loss, Heather Mason knew she could not afford to break down again. She stood taller each step of the way up to the school doors. When she opened them and stepped into the darkness beyond, she was once more unafraid.

Behind her, unobserved, Samael took a helpless step after her, reaching out slightly in her direction. Then, unable or unwilling to do anything for her, he lapsed back into his sentinel pose and was silent. Burdied beneath layers of metal and fiber, a heterochromatic eye narrowed uncertainly.

A just and deserved ending was close; something precious was in perilous danger of being lost forever. Which was more important?

Soon the question faded and was made meaningless and unvoiced; he was a creature of purpose, not philosophy. Existence faded into thoughtless gray; he guarded the place he had determined he would guard, and that was the end of things.

But an unsettling discomfort remained.


	45. Warface

Dawn was getting closer and the group needed to get out of the school. Not just before they got themselves killed by supernatural giants, Laura thought, but before the authorities responded to all the gunshots and/or classes opened for the morning! Although _that_ was assuming all of them hadn't fallen into the Otherworld!

They hit the interior fire doors with a run. Though they found the doors inexplicably locked, it only took one dismayed rattle on Murphy's behalf before Travis was going at the lock with his axe. Thud! Thud!

"As I expected," a soft voice crept up their spines, "they were unable to channel the Crimson Flame sufficiently. Her blasphemy was truly unique." 

Edwin.

Henry and most of the others whirled about at the sound of hiss voice. They found him standing in the hallway behind them, his head tilted to the side curiously, watching them.

"Please leave Silent Hill," he implored them again.

"We're not going _anywhere_ without Heather!" Douglass hollered in response, riled by all of the supernatural hullabaloo going on.

Edwin frowned sadly, as if he was about to say something that pained him. "I am afraid your loyalty is vain. The Mother of God has perished."

Travis finally deigned to respond to something. He botched his next axe-blow and whirled about, staring at the supernatural cultist.

"I regret this as deeply as you do," Edwin continued. "I had hoped to be able to reason with her, or that God's influence would eventually lead her back to the path of righteousness. But she perished as she had chosen to live: In sin, denying God's love for her."

"Like hell she did," Douglass snarled. "Don't you talk like you're one of us! You wanted to kill her yourself! And she's not dead-!"

"Very truly I tell you, the girl you knew as Cheryll Heather Mason has perished. She chose to try and control the uncontrollable; to make deals with demons. Her blasphemy cost her dearly, and the executioner carried out her sentence. She was put to justice through the actions of the Crimson Lord, and has perished."

A horrified and disbelieving silence ran over the assembled party.

"Your welcome and safety here have both expired," Edwin continued. "Please, we have no quarrel with you. Leave Silent Hill immediately."

"You _bastard_," Eileen growled, as Elle stared on in mute horror. "She's not dead, we'd _know_!"

"Believe what you will," Edwin answered. "If you do not leave, I will have to seek other recourse. I am responsible for the well-being of the faithful, and you are clearly intent on our destruction."

"We're not leaving without her!" Eileen shouted.

Edwin took in a long, slow breath. "Very well," he acknowledged, stepping back from them as smoke and fog began to billow up around his feet. "Then your lives are forfeit," he said, staring to fade, "And I suppose if her blasphemy has diluted its potency... there are still plenty of other means."

When Murphy Pendleton heard the first patter of rain he grabbed up his crowbar, jammed it into the door, and pried the badly damaged lock apart. He'd breached the exit before the majority of the group had even registered what was going on. Then gouts of fog were exploding through the halls of the school before them, billowing forward like tendrils of doom.

"MOVE!" the usually quiet man shouted, shoving Travis through the open doorway. The party scrambled out after him as gray babies and other writhing monsters ran ahead of the oncoming supernatural storm, nipping at the survivors' heels. As the last of them, Laura, made it through, Travis and Murphy slammed the fire doors shut on the fog.

"Run!" Travis ordered the rest of the group, then grunted when bodies began slamming into the opposite side of the door. He and Murphy shared a look. The convict thrust his crowbar between the door handles and they pressed their backs hard against the fire doors as the slowest members of their party, namely Douglass, cleared the school yard.

"Ready?" Murphy asked.

Travis grunted as things began to scream, writhe, and clatter about within the school. If Heather was in trouble... This was the _school, _the exact place she was supposed to be. Would stepping through those doors put him where he could get to her?

Was she dead?

Travis looked down at the axe he held in his hands, and for a moment remembered the weight of a burnt and broken child cradled in his arms. He grit his teeth together and then, with a heavy overhand swing, he slammed it headfirst into the door frame.

"What are you-?"

Still pressing against the door with his shoulder, Travis flipped off his cap and hung it on the back of the axe. He looked at Murphy and held up three fingers. Two. One. Both mean leaped away from the doors, which slammed and ratted behind them with cacophony of shrieks. Fog burst out from between the seam in the center, and the crowbar lodged between the doors creaked ominously.

The two men sprinted after their party as fast as their legs could carry them, as fog spilled out of every orifice in the school; upward from its courtyard, out from the windows and doors, blossoming out of the grass. It was drizzling slightly.

When they reached the sidewalk, panting, and turned around, they found the sun rising merrily behind a perfectly ordinary looking Midwich Elementary school, with clear skies in all directions and the paintings of happy children posted in every window.

Murphy gave a long, audible sigh of relief.

* * *

The Heather Mason who entered through Midwich Elementary's school doors was a different person from the one that had left the Pyramid Monster's side. She was again the woman who'd stood beside Alex Shepherd as he'd cradled Elle's body, and who'd been unable to feel much remorse. Certain defensive mechanisms were back in place.

It was very dark inside the school. She felt around for a light switch but, when flicking it yielded no results, she remembered her shoulder flashlight and toggled it on. The interior fire doors looked buckled and strained, as if something had broken through them quite vigorously; even though the exterior doors behind Heather seemed unharmed. Stepping closer to the fire doors, she looked about and listened for any details that might clue her about whatever tests or trials might be coming up.

Her flashlight swept over the side of the door, for a moment she couldn't believe her eyes. Then she jumped forward, reaching forward to grab at the handle of an old and well-worn fireman's axe.

_Oh no. What had happened? Is this Travis's axe?_

Perched atop the head of the axe was an equally old and well-worn cap. It's positioning was so intentional and innocent that it pushed a sigh of relief out of her lungs.

_No way. Did he actually just...?_

She reached up and took the tattered old hat, planted a foot up against the door frame, and managed to dislodge the heavy axe. The handle, she realized, was still warm. And so was the inside of the hat.

"Travis," she murmured. Then she felt about her person. She didn't have a wrench anymore, or any other melee weapon. She did still have a gun, which a quick inspection revealed she would need to reload. Even after reloading it, she re-holstered the weapon. She lifted up the axe and got a feel for its weight. 

Items with sentimental value had power in Silent Hill.

The school was eerily quiet, which in Heather's experience meant that everything would go to hell after she'd walked sufficiently inward such that escape became impossible. Fair enough. She kicked open the fire doors. The hallway beyond was desolate, and she stepped inside. Sweeping her flashlight from side to side, up and down, she walked inward. Step after step echoed hollowly on the old wood floors; creak after creak answered her. As she reached a branching atrium at the front of the school, she suddenly heard a loud bang behind her. Turning about she observed that the fire doors had just fused together into an impenetrable barrier, locking her inside: The seam between the doors had been welded shut, and each of the doors and their narrow glass planes had melted slightly into the other.

Heather nodded. _Your move._

Another bang brought her flashlight back to the hallway at the rear end of the atrium. At first there was no obvious source of the bang: All of the hallway doors were shut. The hall was momentarily quiet. Then another bang sent one of the hallway doors trembling.

Un-intimidated but careful, Heather walked slowly up beside the door. Smashed up against its little window pane was a five foot humanoid monster, burnt and slimy in appearance. Its head looked like a thoroughly chewed piece of beef jerky with a long narrow mouth filled with tiny teeth that peeled open and squealed at her. Bulky, malformed arms thudded up against the glass.

There was another bang from behind her. And another, and another. Shrieks rose up in a cacophony all over the school Heather looked around, her flashlight sweeping across the space as the hallways started to lengthen, distort, and wind off in impossible directions. Above her, a ceiling which ought to have been solid plaster and brick came alive with sputtering lights narrowly hidden behind spinning box fans. At the very far end of the hall, a sickening entity of winding organs and with giant scalpels for arms, slithered down to block a well-lit and rusted doorway.

Heather lowered her head slightly and locked eyes on the monster. She hefted Travis's axe, adjusting her grip. Someplace to the rear of her, first on one side, then on another, she heard the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering as the monsters in all the many classrooms began to break through.

She ignored the distractions. She didn't so much as _twitch. _She stepped forward towards the scalpel monster, and ignored the screams, the roars, the clamoring and the banging. With her offhand, she placed Travis's hat on her own head, and tugged down sharply on the brim. Then she grabbed hold of the axe for extra leverage.

_My move._

A door broke open ahead of her and to the right, and a burnt Jerky Head spilled out, shrieking, into the wall. With a chop she took it's head and shoulder off from it's body. With a cross-chop, she forcibly severed a second Jerky Head who burst out of the room just beside her. 

_You want to fuck with me? Here I am. Here's my warface. For the next twenty-four hours I am Cheryl Mason; Heather Shepherd; Alessa Grady; I am the vengeance of everyone you have ever hurt; I'm the biggest fucking mistake this hell hole ever made, and I am going to make you pay. Let's do this._

Screams blistered through the air behind her as hundreds of bodies stumbled eagerly after her.

And, all the while, crawling above the box fans near the front of the school, unobserved by the creatures below and too quiet for the Mother to overhear, an angel twitched and shuddered curiously, palms pressed flat against scraps of aluminum paneling beneath him.

* * *

It was a long tense drive back to the lighthouse. James had regressed back into feeling positively ill. When they arrived, Laura pulled one of his arms over her shoulder and helped the old man gingerly up into their safe house and up to the room they were staying in. Her father didn't say much, but he squeezed her shoulder appreciatively and maybe protectively.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked him once he was settled down. "Or is this going to be one of those things where I come back and you've been killed by a chestburster?"

James blinked up at her in puzzlement for a moment, then managed a wry smile. "I'll be okay," he promised. "I'm sure she's alive. I wouldn't still feel like this if she wasn't."

Laura frowned. "You know that?"

He shrugged slightly. "Sometimes you just a feeling for how things work here. You know you have to jump down dark holes, pick up revolting trinkets, or put corpses back together, and you just somehow _know_ that's what you have to do."_  
_

"So... you kinda know why you feel so bad?"

He winced and she helped him get his shoes off so he could lay down under the covers.

"Maybe," he offered.

"Can you explain it?"

"Not really. Maybe." He rubbed his face and squirmed, trying to get comfortable. "I think I'm being used for something."

"And you think that's okay?" she blurted, alarmed.

"I think I'm being used as an anchor," he said quietly. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to you. I'll be fine, Laura."

Laura considered the fact that a light anchor could probably be torn off the ground and into mid ocean by a particularly strong ship. She winced, then sighed. She shouldn't be referring to someone who'd just saved her life as 'a light anchor.' Not _now_, anyway. Her father was already half asleep, so she decided not to argue with him and instead leaned over and placed a loving kiss on his brow.

"Sorry about your hair," he mumbled.

She laughed, because she was still alive, and anyway hair was already dead.

* * *

Heather slammed her back into the open door, breaking off the straining arm of a curious Sack Baby with the force of the closing aperture. The door handle had been blackened and melted, obscuring any means of locking the thing. Heather leaned there, holding the door shut. The Sack Babies weren't particularly strong. 

Peering ahead into the classroom ahead of her, Heather found herself looking at a twisted and warped version of Alessa's classroom. The room was reasonably well lit, not by lights, but by a projector that was throwing up a black and white sixties movie on a tattered brown screen at the rear of the room. A woman in a blouse and skirt was standing there, facing away from her. 

Larger forms thudded against the door behind Heather, overshadowing the eager scratches of the Sack Babies and Gray Children.

"The Village of the Damned!" was displayed in comically dramatic letters on the projector screen.

Okay. This was the location of one of the Seals.

Heather's eyes swept away from the woman (likely a representation of the teacher) and hunted down a single straight and unbent desk in the room of twisted shapes that might as well have emerged from the mind of Tim Burton.

She stared at the desk, soaking in the sight of it. Her vision flickered slightly, showing ghostly, rapidly moving, distressing images of Alessa drawing furiously over a piece of paper. Fine, whatever, not what Heather needed. She needed the Seal. She needed the desk to open.

She focused.

For a moment, there was a mocking lack of reaction from her surroundings. _Heather didn't care. _Then, twisted desks creaked about the Mason girl, and then slowly their lids began to rise; moaning with rust and a desperate yearning for mainstainance.

Heather's eyes narrowed as the list of Alessa's desk refused to budge. She wasn't giving up. She continued to stare, blocking out the increasingly powerful thuds behind her, the movie ahead, and the ominous teacher's figure. There was a small shudder about Alessa's desk, then a rumble, and then the top of the slammed open.

Etched into the lid with little more than the constant, repetitive application of a ball point pen, a Seal of the Metatron was barely visible. Papers flew out of the desk, covered in crayon drawings of terrible subjects; of rape, abuse; of the school burning down; of men drowning their children; of burning; of drawing and quartering. They flew about the room in a flurry, filling the room with the sounds of paper and distant screams.

Heather did not lift her head, her eyes narrowing further, glaring intensely from beneath the brim of her cap. Desks crumpled all around her, shrieking as they were pushed across the floor and left gouges in the wood work.

_You're mine._

The Seal at last responded; bursting alive with violent orange flame.

_Lock_.

There was a satisfying click behind her, like a deadbolt being thrown, and then the thudding stopped. The space beyond that door didn't exist anymore.

Heather grunted and then lifted her head. The woman who'd been watching "The Village of the Damned!" had turned around to look at Heather. Her face was pale white and her eyes had been carved out.

"It's you," she whispered. "It really wasn't a game. They knew what they were talking about... didn't they?"

Heather stepped forward from the door with a frown. She glanced up and down the woman for a moment, but no flicker of recognition came to her. Failing, heather glanced about for a teacher's desk, and found one crammed over in the corner. As her flashlight fell over it, it illuminated a name: Mrs. Gordon.

Heather looked back to the woman.

"That's why they did it," Mrs. Gordon whispered. "That's why they hurt you. That's why they hurt me. I didn't believe it, I thought it was all just a bunch of children being bullies, or misusing religion..." she sniffled. "But you really were a little Midwich Cuckoo all along, weren't you?"

Heather stared at the woman blankly for a moment before answering: "I'm going to assume you're talking to Alessa. And in that case, you did the best you could given what was available to you, I'm sure."

The woman shuddered. "I wanted to _save_ you," she whispered. "How was I supposed to know what the devil looked like? How was I supposed to know some things can't be saved?"

Heather lifted a brow. "Alessa was a _kid_. If you died trying to save her, all that means was you were a good person. You're going to take that back _now_?"

"I saw you!" she wailed. "I saw you do things that can't be done! You bent metal, threw things without touching them! I saw the devil in you, I watched as you hurt those poor children, I-, I-!" She took in a long breath. "It was that mark. That _devil's sign_! All along it was they who knew the truth, and I helped save a monster!" She jerked backwards. "What are you!? WHAT ARE YOU!? People can't do magic! People can't do MAGIC! What devil's inside you!?"

Heather frowned. She looked about at the scattered desks and then back at the woman. Alessa's memories flickered through her mind, of a kindly teacher that held her hands and looked at her bruises with a pursed frown on her face. Heather remembered:

_"Mothers should never hurt their children, Alessa."_

_"What if the children are bad? What if demons are inside them?"_

_"What? Alessa, there is nothing any child can do to deserve this."_

"WHAT ARE YOU!?" the woman was screaming

A paper drifted down in front of Heather, depicting Midwich Elementary school wreathed in flames. Around them, she suddenly realized, were other drawings; some done by Alessa herself while a few had been done by Claudia Wolfe. They were filled with animals and all sorts of monsters. Crayon turned to pencil as the drawings aged from kindergarten level to first grade. An alarmed sensation exploded through Heather's mind and she suddenly knelt down, grabbing onto the papers and clearing them away.

Alessa had loved drawing. Heather was an artist.

Her fingers seized onto a paper and she picked it up, tilting the trucker's cap back so she could see the image properly in the dim lighting of the movie projector. Drawn in orange crayon was the word 'My New Friend,' and depicted on the paper was a tall human-like creature, faceless, with a long black tongue coiled down from the side of it's head, and a child (perhaps Alessa) holding its hand.

_I don't think I like you drawing all those monsters anymore, Alessa._

_Claudia? Why?_

_It bothers me. I think God wouldn't want you to draw things like that._

_But..._

"DEMON! DEMON!"

Heather looked up at the eyeless representation of Ms. Gordon. She sighed. "Just turn into a monster already," Heather Mason complained. "You're giving me a headache, and I need to get to the hell world."

* * *

The first thing Elle did was power on the secretary's computer in the reception room. She went to heat up a cup of tea and then came back and sat down at the desk without another word. Douglass came up behind her in concern and then blinked when he realized she was researching the name 'Edwin' in relation to Silent Hill. Suddenly interested he leaned over her shoulder and directed her to a few websites where he thought they could use his credentials to access online databases and maybe get some information. Elle nodded her thanks but didn't say anything.

"Elle?" Eileen eventually asked, coming up beside the secretary desk. "Are you okay?"

The girl glanced at her, her gaze not exactly hostile or even disinterested, but perhaps conveying she was simply too hurt to really talk to anyone.

Douglass spoke for her: "We're trying to see if we can find out anything about this Edwin."

Travis rubbed the top of his head, feeling slightly naked without his cap. Still, it had gone to a good cause. Henry looked at Elle for awhile and then tried to head into the kitchen. He'd make some coffee, he thought.

"Henry," Travis recalled. The quiet man blinked and looked back at the truck driver. "Get back here. You've some explaining to do."

Douglass then also remembered what they'd learned about Heather and Alex from Walter, and he stood up straight and turned a stern look in the photographer's direction. "Hell yeah you do," Douglass agreed. "What the hell were you thinking, not telling us about that? She's in there because of a _monster_? Are you daft?"

Henry looked around at the assembled group members. Most of them were looking at him. Elle was likely listening in, but she'd gotten into a rhythm researching already and didn't want to stop. Henry sighed.

"Let me get something first," he said, and headed for the Lighthouse staircase.

Eileen hurried off to make tea for everyone. (Laura thought it was odd the men didn't hold _her_ responsible for not telling them things. If Henry had known then surely Eileen had known, and Henry was the quiet one; Eileen was gabby. Eh. Men). Eileen returned with a tray full of steaming mugs and settled them down just in time for her husband to return to the main floor. Douglass and Travis were waiting expectantly. Murphy loitered nervously behind the latter. Laura raised a brow.

"Is that the Bestiary?" Laura asked, realizing Henry was holding a book.

"Yes," the quiet man answered, coming up and taking a seat on the couch. "Heather left it with us when she departed Canada." For a moment, the other men remained standing. When Henry blinked up at them innocently, they gave each other a look, then seemed to deflate a little and settled down. 

"Why didn't you mention this earlier?" Douglass groused.

"It would have taken quiet a bit to explain and it didn't seem relevant," Henry answered. "Also you didn't ask."

"How the hell would we-" Douglass sputtered, then slapped a hand over his face. Henry really was the sort one had to ask questions like that of. "So what exactly happened?

Henry flipped through the pages of the Bestiary, and onlookers glimpsed the newest drawings from Alex Shepherd's additions to the book. Laura jumped forward and grabbed Henry's arm. "That's one of them!" she exclaimed, grasping some at the book and tugging it nearer to herself to see. "It looks like the thing my dad saw, and just like- you say that Alex saw this?"

The sounds of keystrokes cut off. A moment later, Elle had come up to have a look.

Henry nodded. "He finished describing almost all the monsters he'd seen before the call came that Elle had gone missing." He glanced up at the woman in question and then back at the book. "Incidentally, this is why I believe your father, James, may be having some trouble right now. The two may be slightly linked by... well, by a shared mythology."

Laura grimaced and sat back. "Hmph. Well. What were you going to show us?"

Henry nodded his thanks at being released and then quickly skimmed through the pages again. He came to rest on Heather's interpretation of Valtiel. "This is the monster she was seeing."

"Doesn't look like much," Douglass grumbled.

"I think that was intentional on her part," Henry answered, reaching into a pocket and then pulling out a small folio. "Which is why I stole these out of her luggage."

Eileen jumped and blinked at him. "_You_ stole something?"

Henry blushed shyly. "I couldn't manage to take a picture of him," he said bashfully. "I wanted one. I didn't think she had drawn so many."

"Well let's see!" Eileen encouraged. Henry nodded and set down the slender notebook, opening it to reveal a good handful of Heather's favorite sketches. He pushed them forward for the other men to look at, but Eileen nabbed at least half.

"These-!" she gasped, then covered her mouth in surprise. Henry looked at her, then looked down. Eileen glared at him. "You were _hiding_ these from _me_," Eileen accused. "That's why I didn't know about them."

"What's wrong with them?" Laura asked in confusion, then leaned forward curiously when she saw the carefully penned lines depicting the monster as surprisingly innocuous and elegant. It was captured perched on lamps or sofas, eating chocolate upside down, hunting spiders, and even hugging a freshly baked cake with a chef's hat on lopsided. _"Oh_," Laura murmured in sudden understanding, her voice reflecting the disturbed surprise the older adults were all thinking. "Holy shit."

Douglass was speechless. Travis frowned down at the sketches, marking the symbol etched into the creature's shoulders. He glanced up at the atrium mirror, which still had the same bloody symbol etched in its corner. Then he looked back at Henry.

"How long was this thing with her?"

Henry shook his head. "She said it showed up shortly before she met Alex. So, months. Half a year? We didn't find out about it until a very short time ago. I called Heather because I felt she was avoiding us. Mid conversation, something let out a roar and tried to grab the phone away from her. She began chastising it sternly and then cut off and told me her monster was bleeding and to call back in fifteen minutes."

Douglass gaped at him.

Henry shrugged helplessly. "He would cuddle up against her head while she slept, sometimes clinging to the wall like a gecko behind her, and she'd use his arm like a pillow. She said it kept the nightmares at bay."

"What?!" The detective exclaimed. "This thing!? From Silent Hill!?"

Henry didn't know what to say. "It would be Heather's right to explain something like that to you. I can't defend her choice, explain it, or justify it in any way, and that is part of why I didn't say anything. I didn't think it would end up being significant to what we did here. What Walter said leads me to believe this might have been an oversight."

"This thing is weirdly cute," Laura said, lifting up the pictures to look at them. "I mean _really_. Is this it in drag? Oh _wow_. Where do I sign up to get one?"

Henry looked at her oddly. Then a knock came at the front door. Laura blinked, set the pictures down, and then went up to answer it. "Careful!" Douglass called despite his shock.

"Nah don't worry, whatever it is it'll grab me first anyway. Now you guys just know for sure what direction to aim in," Laura told them sarcastically. She opened the door.

Standing quite tall, taller than even his teenage self, messy and bloody in the doorway, with his left arm amputated above the elbow and parts of his coat torn and plastered to his side with red; Walter Sullivan blinked smugly and curiously down at Laura Sunderland.

"May I come in?" he queried.

Laura gaped, then instinctively moved forward to help him despite Henry and Eileen's calls to back up. Walter smirked a little, and then fainted dead away and collapsed into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations Lauren, you've just won one free Boogieman! Ding ding ding! 
> 
> Er...
> 
> Damn it Walter, why are you still in my story? Haven't I killed you yet? You're not a monster. Read my lips: I only like monsters.


	46. Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to Elle's Theme :3  
Here's an [ unofficial link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQWY4P_0vhs&ab_channel=MaryElizabethMcGlynn-Topic) working at the time of posting.

"So... just... one more time. Explain it to me one more time."

Henry sighed at the detective and nodded. "We were driving into Silent Hill when we encountered them on the road. We were relieved to see them, listened to their story, and then got Elle tucked away in the back of the car. But when we were ready to leave, Heather was still standing apart from us. It turned out that while Alex and Elle were able to leave, Heather _wasn't_. So Alex turned back to stay with her."

"Originally you said that was because of Edwin. That she had to stay to deal with him. I thought this was like how it was when Claudia sucked her in!"

Henry shook his head. "She stayed to finish things."

Murphy frowned. "Finish what?"

"Everything," Travis interjected when Henry looked uncertain what to say. "She stayed to try and destroy the cult. On our behalf. So none of us would ever end up getting kidnapped like Elle or murdered like Harry."

Douglass frowned at him. "You're the one who told her to go back to Silent Hill in the first place– to see that psychiatrist who's supposed to live in this Lighthouse! Well where is he now? Your advice was the reason she couldn't stay away!"

Travis eyed the detective quietly a long moment, face impassive. "Is that what you believe?" he asked.

"It's true, isn't it?" Douglass tried to be angry but, in truth, his energy was fizzling out. He frowned. "Well then what's the truth?"

Travis situated his weight slowly. "The truth?" His eyes got a far-off look as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair. "It was a few years ago. I knew something was wrong the moment I entered the same room as her. I could feel it in the air; the sort of thing I'd felt way back then whenever Alessa was near. Heather was falling apart. She held up a tough front in public, but when I dropped in on her at her house I knew for sure something was eating her alive. I found her curled up on the floor of her living room, and it was _snowing_ all around her on the carpet. I picked her up, put her in the passenger seat of my truck, and with the road freezing solid around us I brought her back here."

Douglass stiffened in surprise; Henry too. This was not the story they'd heard from Heather. This was new. Murphy looked equally surprised, but for different reasons; he obviously wouldn't have advised anyone to go back into the town. "The hell?" Douglass sputtered. "Why here?"

"There were only two ways to go: farther away, or back towards. She'd tried 'farther away' almost her whole adult life. So I made a gamble, and my wager was this: Heather was strong enough to survive on her own. That was it, that's all I assumed, and I did it because I'd known her, known Alessa. But then it follows from that, if Heather _was_ strong enough, then everyone around her was telling her the wrong way of dealing with things, because we all ran away from it once we'd escaped. Deep down, maybe a little part of me–the part that still drove through this hellhole voluntarily once annually–knew there was a different way of looking at it."

"You knew she was a fighter," Henry speculated. "You gambled that she'd only get better if she confronted the problem."

"She froze the village solid for months," Travis answered. "I followed her to make sure she was okay. She came to this Lighthouse, all abandoned and falling apart. The moment she entered everything restored itself. Lights came on in the windows, a doctor and a secretary and patients were here. Later the villagers didn't seem to find anything odd at all; they spoke very highly of the therapist, Dr. Kaufmann. You don't find that name odd? Check out the entries she made for Harry in the Bestiary."

Henry blinked and then did so, quickly flipping to the pages Heather had filled in for the late Harry Mason. His eyes widened when he alighted upon the characters Dhalia, Lisa, and Dr. Kaufmann. Quickly he looked back up at Travis.

"Her... You never told anyone? About this...? Him...? That she was manifesting Alessa's abilities?"

All eyes were on Travis in anticipation of the answer. The truck driver only met Henry's gaze quietly.

"Did you tell _her_?" Henry pressed, and then simultaneously made a realization: "Heather didn't know. She blocked the memories."

"She didn't need me to tell her," Travis answered cryptically.

"The hell do you think she didn't?" Douglass snarled. "She was going _crazy_!"

"I knew Alessa; you didn't," he said, leaning forward. "The kid was emotional, but she had the strongest will power and the the most ironclad grasp on reality of any human being I've ever met. She could call lightening from the sky and beat a man in a game of chess while doped up on enough morphine to kill an elephant."

Douglass frowned.

Travis settled back again. "Heather wasn't going crazy; she was psychic and she needed an outlet before things got messy. She needed a problem to solve, an adversary to fight, some clay to build with. All I had to do was validate her; tell her it was okay to go back; tell her that running away wasn't the only valid means of coping with a thing."

Travis looked away, and then continued quietly: "The lighthouse was her crutch; She'd give it up when she was ready. Last thing anyone needed to tell her was what was 'normal.' Would've blown holes through her. The hell's normal for a psychic, anyway? The cult never seemed to notice her comings or her goings; so I watched for a bit and then I packed up. Didn't ask her about it much after that. Just watched as she got better."

Murphy shifted, thinking. He sort of understood Travis's reasoning. 

"Shoulda guessed it would lead to _this_," Douglass disapproved.

"She picked this," Travis responded. "Henry's right. Kid's a protector, not just a fighter. As long as any of us are alive and there's still a cult, she'll put herself between us and them. It's just _her_. And denying that nearly shattered her; and screwed up her memories for _years_. So how about instead of pointing fingers, we work at trying to save her?"

"By helping her kill Edwin?" Douglass looked at Henry. "Or how does the monster figure in?"

Henry shook his head. "I don't know what to say about 'the monster,' or if it even matters."

"Well the crazy undead hobo sure seemed to think it mattered!" Douglass hollered, gesturing wildly over to the other atrium couch where Walter Sullivan was crumpled limply into the cushions. Crouched above him was Laura, wincing as she gingered peeled back his blue coat from horrible stab wounds and lacerations.

When they'd first dragged the serial killer in, Eileen had wordlessly handed Laura a box of medical equipment; then she'd retreated back to a safe distance in one of the corners of the room to watch with a morbid sort of fascination. Laura, usually irresponsible and abrasive, had taken the kit without any evidence of hesitation, knelt down at Walter's side, and set to bandaging his wounds. Walter was still out cold.

The conversation lulled for a moment as Travis, Douglass, Henry, and Murphy all looked in that direction. Douglass grimaced. "James is going to kill us," he muttered.

"It is typical of Walter to give fair warning to his victims," Henry recalled. "Little Walter even _saved_ Eileen's life once. But given how he eventually ended up seeing Eileen and her role in his life, I agree that Laura nursing him might be a terrible, terrible idea."

Douglass shook his head. "Monsters. Look: Let's stay on topic. This 'Valtiel.' You said it's a cult god, the same one that made Sullivan kill all those people to bring back the primary cult God. And it was living in Heather's house? _Sleeping_ with her?"

Henry fidgeted. "I saw him multiple times. Hovering over her bed, or crawling on the ceiling. She even brought him out in full daylight in my home, when she asked for his help rescuing Elle."

Murphy thought of a certain final confrontation with a lady police officer, and repressed a shiver.

" 'He,' or 'it'?" Douglass asked.

Henry frowned. He looked down and then back up again. "Are we working to save Heather, or to bask in how unusual her choices were?"

"Look, you said to Walter that you think half the reason Heather went back into this town was to try and get a Silent Hill monster _out_! And he agreed with you! He said that's the reason she's stuck there, and that the town is going to kill her for it! If accepting the truth about this thing is what she needs to do to make it out alive, then we need to know where she's gotten stuck!"

The group didn't question whether Edwin had been right. No one truly believed Heather could be dead.

"Valtiel helped and protected her," Henry told them. "It would be a valid reaction to be concerned for him."

They looked up at soft footsteps. Elle, who had been gazing quietly at Heather's pilfered drawings for a long time, was looking down at them with cool eyes. "Are you honestly agreeing... are you telling me..." she asked in a low voice, "that Alex is dead because that Mason girl was too busy rescuing a monster? That's why he died? That's how she got him killed?"

Henry frowned. "Elle... There was never a good time to tell you, but..."

"I'm going to _kill_ her," Elle vowed.

Murphy winced.

Travis blinked and looked at Henry in concern. "You didn't tell Elle? Henry..."

"She was always either unconscious or mourning," Henry offered, and then looked hesitantly up at Elle.

Elle frowned suspiciously back at him. "What? What don't I know?" she asked.

"Elle..." Douglass said compassionately, then trailed off as he also didn't know where to start.

"Just say it. What do you all know that I don't?"

Henry averted his eyes shyly for a moment, rubbed his fingers against one another, and then looked quietly back up at her. "Heather and Alex were a couple."

Elle watched their faces blankly for a moment. Then she closed her eyes and shook her head, turning away from them and walking up to the windows. She looked out quietly. "So much time I spent waiting for that boy," she said quietly, then directed her entreaty out to the world. "Where have you been? You are a different man."

"Elle..." Eileen had finally been drawn forward out of her corner.

"Were they happy?" the young woman asked.

"I... I think so. Yes," the older woman answered. "They'd only just started dating. Hey, one of the first things she asked us through the mirror was if _you_ were okay."

Elle only nodded.

"We're going to have to bathe this couch in bleach," an oblivious Laura complained, leveraging her weight to get bandages around her patient's waist. Her V-neck was showing off a frilly black and red bra. There was blood everywhere, and it was causing her clothing to cling to her provocatively. Douglass grimaced again. James really was going to kill them. If sexual magnetism was anything like regular magnetism, Laura could have–while utterly oblivious about it–caused Mars to crash into the Earth.

"Do you not realize he probably can't die?" Douglass disbelieved.

Laura made a face. "Oh come on, I couldn't just let him collapse there or bleed out all over the place!" Douglass looked about to protest and she pouted. "He _helped_ us. I don't want to know what happens to you instead of dying once you fuck up after being already dead." She settled the undead man back down and checked the stitches on the stump of his arm. "Okay I think that's everything..."

Eileen gave Laura a strangled look, then looked sympathetically at Elle. Travis grunted, then made a face when Laura apparently got distracted, because she'd leaned over and, with a slight smile, brushed bloody hair out of the dead man's face.

"She reminds me of someone," Henry said quietly.

"Absolutely do not let James hear you say that," the trucker whispered back. "We need to keep a really close eye on this one."

Henry and Douglass nodded.

"So. We need to convince Heather of the truth," Douglass said, "and to help her kill Edwin. We need to drop all the clues about him we can, we know that. But if she's gotten this crazy idea in her head... Where do we start? We can't sit down and have an honest conversation with her about reality."

"We can when she gets back safely," Travis said, shrugging a shoulder at the mirror. "She made sure of that."

"So where do we start? What do we say? Can you tell us more about it, Henry?"

The man frowned. "I had gotten the distinct impression Valtiel was on her side," he said slowly. "But you're right. Walter's point is clear." He thought back. "Valtiel was... something else. Not a normal Silent Hill monster. He knew everything about us and our past interactions with Silent Hill. He could control shifts to the Otherworld and make other impossible things happen. When I said something suggestive, as a test, he caused the numbers 21/21 to appear all over me in cuts for a few moments."

The other men all grimaced.

"You're shitting me," Douglass snarled. "That's what we're up against? We've got to help her."

* * *

They started to discuss the topic in earnest. Elle didn't really listen; the murmur of their voices was a soft and constant background voice.

"Elle?" She heard Eileen ask.

"My sister," Elle said softly. "In my mind... places keep returning. I still see her smile." Eileen frowned.

_And in the dark, fear that I am feeling d_ _ies once in awhile..._

Elle didn't seem to be with them at the moment. Her mind was elsewhere, in the streets filled with fog, spiraling about Shepherd's Glenn Eileen came up and touched her shoulder, but the younger girl didn't respond.

_And as the moon leads me through the madness, there, standing alone:_

Lost in her memories, Elle was alone, desperately searching for her lost sister, overwhelmed by the darkness and the oppressive gray.

_I feel a breath, coming from the shadows... Streets, almost alive..._

A low shriek - Thunderous footsteps - The skittering of insects.

Horrified, Elle turned around, peering through space, through an endless fog as a massive red helm crested through the darkness. Noise filled the air, like radio static; half words, half nonsense.

_I hear a voice. I hear a sound._

Standing in the present, grounded unthinking before Midwich Elementary, a weak consciousness stirred. The Red Pyramid released his knife with one hand, turning about to look out at the empty street behind him. His gaze lifted to the yellow light of the Lighthouse, so distant and far, which could nevertheless be seen through the omnipresent fog.

_Why, a choice?_

Two sets of hands, one in a memory, one in a paradox, clenched tight about the handle of a knife

_I need to know. I need to know. Can I trust who you say that you are?_

In the blur between Elle's vision and memories, the massive being took a slow step towards her. Then, with a rush of wind, its form disintegrated. In it's place, a familiar man approaching her in the fog.

_Welcome home. _ _Embrace your hell._

Out in front of Midwich Elementary, a Red Pyramid twitched uncertainly. It tip of its helm hovered almost nervously up towards the lighthouse rays. Then the tip of its helmet swiveled back towards the school. The doors loomed surreal and impassible. He took a step towards them. He tried to take another, but his legs would not move.

_Why do you have no choice?_

He tried, tried vainly to move forward, throwing his strength, his will, his anger into the motion. He managed another step, and gave a slow, victorious growl. Another step. Another step. There was a ripple of energy, and then a vibrant red Seal of the Metatron spilled out over the front doors. He staggered backwards, roaring furiously.

A hiss answered him. He looked up. Perched atop the entryway to the school, as innocuous as a gargoyle, Valtiel was watching him disapprovingly. Newspapers and other debris were blowing around him, as the air itself refused Samael passage.

He'd made a covenant that could not be broken: The angel's help in exchange for chains. Furious, one executioner twin roared up at the other. Valtiel tilted his head to the side. The red seal flared. The Pyramid Monster stumbled backwards, helpless in the face of their symbiotic pact. Waves of fury, panic, distress, hostility rolled over him.

_I Am Going To Kill Her,_ he knew, and then was overcome by a pall, a sickness, so intense that it made the whole of the Elementary school writhe.

Valtiel twitched and twisted in place to regard the building, the rabbithole into the abyss.

Valtiel intended for the Witch to survive. Valtiel intended to follow Xipe's counsel. Valtiel intended to bring Aless back to the faithful. But Valtiel would not win because the Witch would not survive; The Smith was going to destroy her. She was already in the depths of the building, rage filling her as she cleaved past hoards of Sack Children.

_Valtiel._

The angel wasn't paying attention.

_Valtiel. Valtiel... Valtiel!_

Distracted, the Metatron looked back Samael's way Leaves and bits of paper whirled about him.

_Valtiel. S... V... _He saw her step into the final puzzle room, carelessly finding all of the clues, jamming them into place. No. Save_ her. Save her! Valtiel!_

The angel tilted his head to the side in bafflement. Among the swirling air and debris, one piece of yellow parchment drifted up the brick walls, somehow slightly different.

Elle, lost in memories, trying to reconcile the shape she'd seen just before Alexander Shepherd's return to Shepherd's Glenn with the monster drawn in Heather's strange Bestiary. She thought of Joshua. Of her sister.

_Forbidden life taken in a moment... Life, too late for saving..._

Something swept through her then, a realization, a certainty.

"Or just in time," she murmured, turning around, looking at the mirror hanging up in the parlor of the lighthouse. Splattered over the upper corner was the symbol of the Metatron, drawn in–unbeknownst to her or anyone else present–Alex Shepherd's blood.

* * *

"You're looking at it the wrong way," Elle interrupted loudly, surprising the arguing men. They looked towards her. Elle had squared her shoulders and stood before them with a stubborn set to her jaw. "You keep talking about how you're going to convince her to succeed without the monster."

"Of course," Douglass said, as that ought to have been obvious.

"This monster really did appear to be powerful? Supernaturally powerful?" she asked Henry. "Like it had _agency_?" He blinked and the nodded. "And you are sure at one point it was definitely helping her?"

Henry hesitated and then nodded again.

"So you know Heather Mason has successfully commandeered a _cult god_ at least once."

"According to Walter that's been undone," Henry responded.

"But she did it once already," Elle pushed. "A cult god. Something that can control Silent Hill, traverse obstacles, undermine cultists... Something akin to the demon to which my home town sacrificed children?"

"What are you getting at?" Douglass asked.

"You are telling me that she's convinced that she can 'save' a cult monster, that she will absolutely try to esnare him with significant psychic abilities which she really does have, and you know also that something is so wrong with the Silent Hill monsters that she's been able to commandeer not one but _multiple _incarnations of this executioner..." Eileen gestured vaguely towards Walter "And... and please explain to me why it isn't your primary objective to find her an opening?"

Travis straightened. Douglass frowned. "_What_?"

Elle stepped forward. "You're telling me her biggest 'weak point' is that there might be a chance to steal a god from their side and give it–however temporarily–over to her? Something shaped like one of those monsters we saw in the school, but as powerful as Edwin?"

Henry make an 'Oh!' shape with his mouth.

"What are you doing!?" Elle exclaimed. "Use their religion against them! You have to find a way to screw the executioner up again, even if it's only once! You think that bastard, Edwin, will expect that even after all his hard work of organizing the order, that an attack will come from an area he's just straightened out? From an allied god?"

Henry looked down at the photos. Then he looked at Elle. Travis stood. "Find us where the Valtiel Sect gathers," he told Douglass. "A holy place, a temple niche, anything."

"This is crazy," the detective muttered, but he scrambled for the computer console. "What are you going to do, take those pictures and scatter them everywhere like mementos hoping to help the monster uncover repressed memories like it were one of you?" he hollered. "It's not _human_!"

Murphy blinked and looked at Henry. "Would that work?"

"Keep thinking like that," Travis encouraged.

Douglass swore.

Laura was gently dabbing blood from Walter Sullivan's face when his eyes fluttered open. She blinked in surprise. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He grimaced and for once did not look so smug. "No," he said quietly. "Everything is spinning."

Travis gathered up the photographs. Henry put on his coat. Murphy grabbed a fire poker that was sitting next to the fire place–he needed a replacement for his sacrificed crowbar.

"You guys are going out there!?" Eileen cried in dismay, looking nervously at where she saw Walter was stirring. "You don't even know where to go!"

"I can try using a mirror next to the elementary school," Travis told Murphy.

"I'll take photographs of the drawings," Henry agreed. Both other men paused and looked at him. "Well, she'd get angry if we lost the originals." Both men looked at each other. Then Travis shrugged and then headed out the door. Eileen cursed and wrung her hands together.

Walter looked about the room for a moment, then looked weakly back at Laura. "Could you tell Mother I'm not going to hurt her?" he asked.

She was about to respond when he fainted again.

* * *

In the depths of hell, standing before a barely recognizable principal's doorway, which had blood and organs clogging up the walls, and thousands of legs with cute black shoes and red skirts trying to grab at her from the ceiling, Heather Mason adjusted her cap and hefted up Travis's fireman's axe.

This was it.

This was Impotence's sibling.

This was the _thing_ she'd come to kill, and she'd know what name to give it just as soon as she saw it.

Coated in blood as if it were a fresh coat of red paint, Heather spit on the ground and choked her grip on the axe. She barely felt any tiredness, even after swinging the weapon for hours.

"Alex," she said. "I'll live. I won't fall apart on this one. I'll make sure they're safe. And I'll make him pay."

She nodded to herself and then advanced on the door. Two pustules on either side unfolded outwards, revealing half-humanoid, half-spider wall-monsters that stabbed at her in an effort to deny her entry. Twirling her axe, she forced one set of limbs upward while severing half of the others. 

* * *

A doll imparted on a lonely subway station.

_Valtiel! Save Her!_

Samael tried to move forward again, but the air blew and the earth rumbled in defiance of his will. He had made a covenant. He was bound; as surely as he'd ever been bound by God's Mercy.

A little girl burning in a circle on the floor.

_Save Our M-!_

A glorious paradise, filled with singing angels, surrounded by faithful, a beautiful long veil of red silk, a loving touch upon the face.

_VALTIEL!_

A heart drawn on glass, an impassioned embrace in the night, the glorious smell of golden hair.

The Pyramid Monster screamed in pain, confusion, and frustration. Shaking with the breadth of his exertions, he leaned heavily on the hilt of his knife. He couldn't do it; He had done it. It was about to be over, and he had brought it about, and there was nothing he could do, and he had finally done it.

_No. Please. Mustn't let me-_

Valtiel backed up slightly, with a distrusting cant to his body language; not really understanding his twin but disinclined to alter behaviors which had served him so well for millennium. Something was wrong. Among the debris stirred up by the aggressive wind, a piece of yellow parchment continued to climb the school. It clung to brick after brick, and then rolled up into his forearm.

A pause.

Disbelief.

_Curiosity._

Fuse-fingered gloves gently closed around the piece of parchment, ensnaring it before it could blow away. Wrapped in red leather, they lifted up the flickering paper, then carefully smoothed it out when the wind made it impossible to decipher.

Deep beneath him; beneath the fog, beneath the rust, Heather had reached the door. She clutched the door handle and then forced it open, and stepped out into a room filled with countless blank canvasses.

_Wonder._


	47. The Second Seal: Insanity

Heather looked around at the blank canvasses arranged on the walls around her.

The space vaguely resembled her work studio, large in all dimensions, with high ceilings and ventilation shafts. Instead of being square, it was rounded, and the canvasses appeared worn and slightly concave. The layout made her irritated more than nervous. She looked about, holding her axe at ready.

_I'm no fool. I know this is the end of the line. _ _Let's get it over with._

"Kid!"

Heather spun about and then lowered her weapon just as a hatless Travis Grady came jogging up from behind her. The canvases behind him showed a few, black sketch marks, which ordinarily might have signified to her that something else was already in the room aside... But right now she was just too surprised!

"Travis!" she exclaimed, taking a step towards him. "What are you doing here!?"

The old man heaved a voiceless sigh. "You're alive," he groaned thankfully. "Edwin encountered us in the school, told us you were _dead_..."

Heather's eyes widened. "Edwin? In the school? What happened is everyone-?"

He waved a hand and nodded. "Everyone's okay, but I couldn't just leave like that. I thought, if maybe I could just get you a _weapon_..."

The axe. Heather smiled gratefully up at the men who had weirded her out for nearly a decade, but who had been the closest thing she'd had to a father since Harry Mason died. Travis didn't have to explain why he was there; she got it. But it still scared the shit out of her.

"Travis, what are you doing here?" she repeated again in a low voice, now glancing round at the canvases. Black pigment was stirring across them.

The trucker said nothing for a moment and then managed, in a restrained voice, "I came back. I used the mirrors in the school. Kid, I had to _know_. You're not the only one who... who needs to make sure their friends are safe."

"You've got to leave," Heather managed. "Quickly. Now! Whatever it is, it's... it's coming-"

"I'm not leaving you alone," he answered, glancing round at the images. "Not like this."

"_Travis_," she pleaded, then stiffened when all of the black pigment vanished. The room was eerily quiet. Heather balanced out her weight in a fighting stance. Travis looked equally tense. She glanced his way, alarmed by the unfamiliar wrongness the room was emanating; she felt like it was blocking out senses she barely knew she'd come to rely on. What was happening? What was-?

"Mind if I have my hat back?" Travis asked her.

Heather couldn't suppress a laugh. She reached up, took the cap off and passed it to the trucker, who donned it. "It has served me well," she told him sagely.

He smirked, opened his mouth to say something, and then suddenly went ramrod straight.

"Trav-" She turned to behold a massive dog-headed appendage of flesh, like a serpent, jutting out twenty feet from a canvas. It was at least four feet in circumstance along its neck; its grossly distorted head was stylized like a ceremonial Chinese dragon's, and salivating.

More important than its appearance was its tongue, a long spear-like protrusion that had leaped forward out of its mouth like a chameleon's tongue: The barbed tip of which had gone straight through Travis Grady's back, and was now protruding from his stomach.

"TRAVIS!"

"Fuck-"

The tongue retracted with a lightening quick snap, dragging the man's body along with it as if he were as light and weightless as tissue paper. She was sure she heard a crack as something snapped from the horrible whiplash. The dog's jaws came down on him like a mousetrap.

Two friends screamed out in unison; one in intense physical pain; the other in emotional. Before Heather could do a thing, the monster snaked out from the canvas like a roller-coaster, bursting up into the air at high speeds, then slowing down as it leveled off its trajectory near the ceiling.

Horrified, Heather spun about to see that many similar snake-like, dog-headed monsters were bursting out of the rest of the canvases, each following a similar trajectory; They arched up towards the roof, towards where the first head held the bloodied and struggling form of Travis Grady.

"NO!" Heather screamed, rushing back towards where the end of the first 'snake' was still emerging from its canvas. Memories of death and loss were rushing across her vision. Travis was going to die? She tried to imagine the Mark of Samael. She remembered its presence in the school room, on the hellscape, on the lighthouse, but for some reason the shape seemed inaccessible to her.

As she reached the canvas, she lifted her axe high and brought it down on the monster's scaly hide. It wasn't enough; it was four feet thick, and she'd cut only inches. 

"Heath-!" her best and longest ally rasped.

"STOP IT, NO!" Heather tried a different tactic, and instead slashed at the canvas.

Shrieks and hisses poured forward from the raw paper, and the head writhed. Heather turned to look just in time to see five of the other heads rush in to take advantage of the prey. They butted away the first dog-head and bit down on every part of Travis Grady's body. Their teeth sunk into his arms, his legs, his chest and waist. Amid the screams and her own desperate sounds of anguish, she heard a sickening fleshy noise as five or six spear-tongues launched themselves into flesh, sliding up between bones with their barbed tips.

There was a moment of fussing and growling; shrieking and crying.

Then the heads tore backwards, quartering their prey into bite-sized chunks.

No.

No!

NO NO NO NO NO!

Heather staggered forward, not registering the sounds that came from her mouth; hoarse and grating and loud. Sobs shook her whole body, she knew that, but still she staggered forward single-mindedly. Her hands wrung the axe she'd been gifted. She was probably screaming his name.

No.

Please.

Not again.

The snakes writhed for a short while in the air, the dog-heads swallowing their portioned meal. They rubbed and nosed against each other and then at last they curved downward, wiggling towards the ground in unison. Frothing bloody liquid seethed from the mouths of the serpents, a dribbling vomit. It splattered on the ground beneath them all, forming a pool of blistered and wiggling material.

Heather continued to stagger forward, staring where bony protrusions began to jut upward from the fleshy vomit pile. At first the bony projects made it look like an organic, spiked wheel. Then wiggling appendages and tendrils began to emerge. Soon after, scalpel-like blades jutted out from it, like sharp fingertips that wiggled and writhed.

Within thirty seconds of Travis Grady's horrific death, the monsters who had partaken of his flesh pursed their ugly snouts together, and their long necks heaved and bloated as they began to regurgitate what they had eaten.

The dias grew and wrapped upwards, its scalpels slicing, cutting, reforming. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on beneath all the squirming. Human flesh dropped away in cubes, only to be picked up again and forced back into place. A torso portion still wearing flannel dripped down into view and then scalpels ran across the torso's midsection, eviscerating it. Intestines sprawled to the ground for a moment but were fed back upwards. The form between the dog heads writhed; as if Travis were still alive, as if he were still in pain.

Heather stood near the center of the room, holding the axe numbly by the handle with the head drifting uselessly near the floor. The dog heads retracted one by one. Tubes of flesh dripped from their mouths now, tubes that draped down like curtains and plugged painfully into the shoulder-blades of their creation. All together, they were like six seraph wings; six curtains of tubes, one from each of six heads.

Standing between them, tall, stained, scarred, was...

_No_.

He still stood the same height. He was certainly much stronger than the old man ought to have been, but he had the same build, the same basic shape. No scrap of his original clothing remained. He was clothed in his own internal organs, which formed a drapery about his legs: lungs, liver, stomach, heart, pancreas, kidneys, intestines; all unraveled and yet still writhing with life-movements. Half of his face was torn bare, such that the skin had been flayed away. The eye had ben dug out from its socket, the nose and ears were now a gaping hole, and the mouth was fused together. The other half of his head was covered in steel plating.

"Travis," Heather whispered.

Despite his blindness he looked at her. He seemed to hesitate.

Then an environmental variable changed everything. All around the room, where the dogs were plugged into the canvases, newspaper clippings began to appear. At first they were etched on the canvas material, but then they began to take real form and to break free from the walls and spill about the room. Voices and sounds followed them, rushing outward louder, and louder, and louder.

_A man was found butchered in his home this evening, _one voice droned.

_I'm not your momma! _a woman screamed.

_First respondents to the scene described the sight as shockingly barbaric._

_SCREAM!_

_No he hung himself, he hung- He wasn't dead he- Mother!_

Slashes rippled open in the walls around Heather as if a fleet of angry pyramid monsters had attacked the room with their Great Knives. Rough charcoal lines seemed to appear in midair, dangling from the room's high ceilings. The lines filled in, became colored, turned into shapes, and within moments the room sported dozens of human corpses dangling from the ceiling by their feet. As they came into being, their rib cages ruptured open open and their entrails dropped to the ground with thick wet splatters.

Heather took all this in slowly, carefully. She visually drank in every detail, her body numb. At long last, her eyes moved back to what remained of Travis Grady, The Butcher.

Once upon a time, Alessa had spurned his help. She'd known the lingering darkness, the anger, the repression, the inner helplessness within the man.

But Alessa could also remember cool arms closing around her, picking her off of the burning ground. He had carried her out of that house. He had given her a chance, a chance to sneak out from under their noses, to escape them, to find the family she had always wanted, he'd-

The Thing Which Had Been Travis, The Butcher, slowly lifted up his arm; he was holding a cleaver of ridiculous proportions, and he pointed the tip in her direction.

Heather was quiet for a very long moment, as the dog heads writhed about him like a cloak or mantle or wings, their jaws parting with tube tongues dangling out the corner of their mouths, as they all maneuvered to point menacingly in her direction.

"I forgive you," she whispered.

Tthen the monster was stepping towards her with almost effortless grace, his motions quick and streamlined in comparison with her Red Pyramid's. The dog heads followed him, fresh javelin-tongues priming, and they howled excitedly in anticipation of the hunt.

Heather Mason lifted up the fireman's axe and lowered her head.

Warface.

* * *

"That's not the right way," Henry complained in a monotone.

Murphy looked at him incredulously.

"I took the Polaroids so that you could use _them_," Henry offered. "Now you've lost the originals."

Murphy rubbed the back of his neck. Henry was _weird_.

"If there's any sense in this at all," Travis disagreed, "it'll be in using the originals." He smirked. "C'mon Henry, they're just drawings. She can do new ones."

"And you made backups already," Murphy noticed. "Three time each."

Henry pouted slightly; originals just weren't replaceable!

"So you think this could actually work?" Murphy inquired. None of the three men were very talkative, and to be honest they might have been inclined to stay quiet in one another's presence, but school was in session and Murphy was technically a wanted man. Being out in the daylight, hanging suspiciously around an elementary school, right after a cultist attack, was making him a little antsy.

"No idea," Travis answered honestly. "But it's better then staying cooped up in that building doing nothing. Why, what do you think?"

Murphy considered the Boogieman and all the things it had embodied for so many different people. His story was different from theirs; he had been a bystander sucked in by his past... _this_ involved religion. He shook his head; he honestly didn't know.

Travis glanced at Henry, who blinked innocently and then looked at the hand mirror through which Travis was carefully dropping the drawings. Murphy winced slightly as each one disappeared into another dimension.

"I think that's the point," Henry decided. "We are doing it because we _don't_ know if it will work, and we want to find out. We are doing it to help Heather answer the same question: Will it work? She didn't have a method to find out; we thought of one first."

"You and Mrs. Townshend are the only ones aside from her who have seen it," Murphy said slowly. "What do you honestly believe?"

Henry shrugged. "Before they came to us, something from Silent Hill attacked Valtiel. He had showed up injured and enraged at Heather's studio. And when he agreed to go in after Elle, I think he already knew there might not be a chance he made it back out. He kissed Heather goodbye on the cheek."

Murphy blinked, and both other men looked at him oddly, each suddenly caught imagining their own respective monsters smooching Heather Mason. Henry, introspective, didn't notice their expressions.

"Yeah," said Travis after a moment, "sounds like Heather. She had a pet Goliath Birdeater once, you know that?"

"A what?" Murphy interjected.

"A huge ass spider," Travis explained "She named it... what was it again... 'Mister Fuzzles.'"

Henry tilted his head to the side. "What happened to it?"

"My shoe," Travis admitted guiltily. "I didn't get invited to visit again for over a year." Then suddenly he shuddered, and his heart began to race faster. He clutched at his sternum and then looked around wildly.

"What's wrong?" Murphy asked, startled.

"... Heather," Travis muttered. "Heather, it's not..."

His eyes closed, a thousand images racing behind his eyelids.

"Shit. Shit... fff... ergh... _shit_."

* * *

The long ventilation shafts spiraled downward, caressed the outer walls of the central chamber like the delicate fingers of a spider. The fans spun, making the lights flicker.

The roars and howls and shrieks of metal colliding with metal were invigorating. Life and death were dancing.

Fingertips shuddered, excited, against the metal. Wriggling and twitching, the boogieman paused and peered down between the grating of the metal panels.

One of the hydra's dog-heads suddenly lunged. Heather managed to dodge its spearhead, but the bulk of the creature threw her backwards. She hit into a canvas with a sharp, drum-like bang, then rolled rapidly out of the way as the Butcher jogged up to the space she'd just occupied. His cleaver came down through the canvas, cleaving it in twain and causing blood to spurt out from its severed fabric. The air filled with a chorus of screams and one of the hydra necks writhed and tossed about, shriveling up.

The Butcher's eyes followed Heather. He tossed the cleaver, grabbing it in a reverse grip. Heather was breathing heavily, clutching her friend's axe in both hands. Her hair had been severed in one place where the clever had come dangerously close to impacting her cranium. She had initially expected the meat knife to be a crude hacking weapon, and she'd been surprised when she realized the Butcher was using slicing and even punching motions with it. The edge, she soon realized, was deadly sharp.

At least half the canvases were still undamaged; she wagered she had to destroy them all before he'd be vulnerable. And after that? Would the Butcher fall or would she have to defeat him hand to hand? Erf, no time to think! Heather steeled herself and then leaped backwards, feinting, slashing, blocking, rolling, as the Butcher came at her with exceptional speed and violence.

Heather was giving out. A wound on her leg was bleeding badly, draining her strength. Her arms were going numb from all the shocks she'd absorbed through the axe. The Butcher was bigger and much stronger than she was; hell it was almost as fast she was!

From seemly out of nowhere, a dog-headed spear tongue burst towards her chest. Heather let the breath leave her body and she dropped as fast as she could. A cleaver sailed past in a diagonal chop from her right, and the spear flew in from the left. The cleaver hit the spear and sundered it, sending the corresponding dog-head reeling and shrieking. Heather scrambled to her feet, clutching momentarily one of her ankles.

The Butcher pursued her in tight quarters, and it was the only thing she could think of to grab her pistol quickly out from its holster and aim at the soft side of his head. BAM! He reeled, his motion momentarily halted. Heather turned about and brought the axe one-handed through a nearby canvas. The screams she heard behind her and the sudden beating against the ground begged for her to move.

This time, however, there were no weapons to dodge, because the Butcher was being unexpectedly tricky: He didn't strike with the cleaver, and instead grabbed for her with his open hand. As Heather tried to roll, thick fingertips latched onto the scruff of her shirt, and with a low grunt he spun her about, seized her by the throat, and then lifted her victoriously up into the air.

Heather's eyes widened. She lifted up the pistol but he stuck at it with a backhanded swipe of the cleaver and sent the gun flying from her fingertips. The axe was too unwieldy a weapon at this range. She tried using it anyway. Grasping for dear life to his asphyxiating hand, she choked up her grip on the axe and struck the monster's arm.

He took the blow, and did not release her. His cleaver hung menacingly in midair, his eyeless stare boring deep into her. He savored the moment. Then he drew up the cleaver and touched the incredibly sharp tip to her belly. She thought for a second he'd simply jab it into her and drag. He pulled it back instead for a short quick chop.

High above her, unseen, red-leather fingers tips curled slightly into aluminum paneling, blistering and tearing the metal's surface. A black tongue tasted the air, confused, displeased. Xipe would be-

Flickers of pain, loss; the Seal, the Mark; fathers and lovers; good times and bad. She was suffocating, her head rolled back slightly, her eyes gazing horrified up at the hydra-like dog heads.

Something inside his material form clenched. Agitated. Mutters and growls and snorts. Pain; displeasure. Hands tightened on the metal and shook.

_No._

Heather's eyes narrow.

_Not done yet._

Tensing her diaphram and all the muscles in her abdomen, Heather jerk sharply to the side and brought up a foot with all the momentum she could manage. As the cleaver reached the upper-most position of its short parabola, Heather Mason slammed her boot heel straight into the unarmored side of The Butcher's face. He gave a hollow breathy noise and threw her away from him.

Heather shouted as she hit the ground. She lost her axe in the fall. _Get up, get up. _She moaned and staggered to her knees and saw the axe was till embedded in the Butcher's arm, where it must have sunk in and gotten stuck during the throw. She was dazed and sluggish to react to the sight. _I'm unarmed. I'm unarmed._ The Butcher looked down at her lost weapon, the head embedded in his forearm.

He switched his cleaver handle into his injured hand, grabbed the handle of the weapon, and pulled it free of his anatomy with a wet snap. Heather expected he would discard it, but a moment later he hefted its weight about in his hand and even gave it a small toss. His fingers clenched about the handle. He turned his eyeless face back in her direction and then advanced on her, one weapon in each hand.

_Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh-_

She had no weapon. Her gun was missing; she had no wrench, crowbar, or pocket knife. She was completely defenseless. Could she use one of the broken spearheads from the dog heads as a weapon? Maybe?

Heather scampered to her feet, then sprinted when she realized the Butcher was already on her tail. He brought down one weapon where she'd been standing, and the other came across in a horizontal sweep. A spear slammed down after that, right next to her leg.

_Use your smarts, not your speed!_

Heather made a gamble and slipped sideways under the arm the Butcher was using to hold the fireman's axe, anticipating that his wind up for the swing would be just a little too slow. It was, and, as he turned about to behead her, the weapon's head passed just inches away from the nape of her neck.

_Help. Please. Help. Anything. Anyone._

Heather sprinted for a broken spear they'd left behind earlier in the melee. She tumbled down to grabbed the thing without slowing her momentum, but her leg gave out on the rebound and she found herself momentarily unable to stand. A dog head shot down at her, spear tongue still intact. She flung herself to the side and jammed the butt of her own spear against the earth for leverage on reflex. The dog head narrowly missing her and impaling itself face first on her pilfered weapon.

_Jesus._

Then the Butcher had arrived and was stepping around the impaled head, his cleaver raised high. Heather jerked up the butt of her spear up in a block and thankfully the heavy cleaver rebounded off it; the jarring force of the blow still sent painful ripples up through Heather's elbows and into her bones.

_Oh F-_

The fireman's axe came about in a backhanded sweep and the blunt siee of the weapon caught her in the shoulder. The sheer force dislocated her shoulder and sent her flying three feet backwards and straight into the ground. The Butcher advanced confidently. Heather screamed, writhed, and clutched at her newest injury.

_Get up! Get up, get up, get up, you can't give up like this!_

Though seeing stars, Heather wormed to her knees.

_The arm! You need the arm!_

She grabbed hold of a bone and metal outcropping on the floor, wrenched her shoulder back into the socket and screamed. Then past tears she realized she had already lost. The Butcher was standing over her victoriously. He lifted the fireman's axe, pointed the head towards her vulnerable skull, and then lifted the weapon back for a dramatic chop.

_Not like this. I'm better than this. Not like this. Not in the one thing I know I can beat, not against a monster, a construct, a fake..._

She looked up at that eyeless face, shaped from the bones of her dead friend. 

_Travis..._

_What's it matter if I live, if everyone else is dead?_

There was nothing left to do, and she had finally been beaten. Her self preservation instincts had faltered. Her morale was gone. The people she had meant to protect had all suffered and died, because of her. She closed her eyes, and let Xuchibara finish things.

A cougar roar snarled across the room. The Butcher stumbled backwards and looked around in surprise. Heather's gaze darted upward. Something above her was moving, but it was no monster, and it was quite small. No, not small, but slender. It was bright and it was tumbling through the air at surprisingly fast speeds, heading straight towards her.

The shape spiraled through the air, glinting in the dim lighting of the room, and then landed with the wet SHING of metal, the tip embedded in the grime-covered floor. The hilt shuddered almost musically from the impact. She recognized it. It had been lovingly wrapped in black deer leather and inset with four-toed dragons in gold leaf.

Heather stared.

Valtiel.

That cougar roar was Valtiel.

And Valtiel had brought her the katana.

As if the weapon had cut through something much more powerful than simply air and earth, Heather felt a sudden awareness of the world around her. She saw the Seal, the Mark, orange on the Lighthouse, orange on the desk. And what had Walter Sullivan said at the antique shop? That she wasn't _far away_ from the desk Seal, merely _deeper_. She might as well have been standing right beside it, as she had been when she'd 'locked' the school door.

Everything came back to her in an instant.

The Butcher looked at her. He made to raise the fireman's axe. Heather stepped up from her kneeling position, but stepped _towards_ him, not away. She grabbed onto the hilt of the fallen object—her object—her _katana,_ and she drew the blade out and upward. Her motion was fluid, graceful. This was no longer the reckless hacking, blocking, rolling, and tumbling that had characterized the fight only seconds ago. Her katana—_her katana_!—was weightless in her hands; the times in which she held it were the only times Heather ever felt like she could dance.

The silver edge rippled upwards under her control, and it slit across the up-stretched length of the monster's forearm. SCHLK. The weapon was already descending again when the Butcher acknowledged the hit with a breathy noise of surprise.

The flesh about his forearm buckled inward, puckered, and split. The bone trembled. Heather kept moving forward, pushing past the Butcher's side, her katana tip drifting down to follow behind her. The fireman's axe came down—not in a chop, but _all the way down—_behind her. It hit the ground with a grotesque thud.

Heather tucked into a roll, dove away from the monster, and retook her feet. When the Butcher slowly rounded on her, she saw the result of her handiwork. His right arm had been severed halfway up the forearm, and the lost hand—still grasping the axe—lay where it had fallen. He seemed caught off guard.

The corner of Heather Mason's mouth turned upward.

"Your name," she whispered, a wonderful clarity blossoming through her mind. She could envision the Seal, and she clung to it, painting its shape on everything she saw with her mind. "It's 'Insanity.' You've been Impotence and Insanity." A broad and giddy smile stretched over her face. "You weren't any living part of Travis from the start, were you?"

He tossed its clever and caught the weapon back in a more aggressive hold. She nodded, her smile failing. The pain in her shoulder was still awful and the limb was weak and unable to apply force. Her katana was a precision instrument, and she would not be able to use it for blocking against a weapon of the cleaver's size and weight. Her leg wound would keep her from kiting him about. So there was only one option: she had to take out the other arm, and she had to do it fast, and well, and all while dealing with lunging wolf-headed snake things with spear-tongues.

Her fingers tightened around the katana's hilt. As she clung to the image of the Seal in her mind, the lightning all around her seemed to dim. Then she could see an unholy abomination, the Crimson Lord in all his glory, the Smith, standing proud and massive, superimposed on the place the Butcher's place. His triangular helm was similar to Alex Shepherd's boogieman. Though he had no face, the 'look' he gave her was of complete dominance, complete disgust. She was a helpless fly before him.

Heather sneered, glancing briefly around the battlefield to take stock of any props or features she might use to her advantage. Above her, eviscerated bodies were still hanging on metal hooks. Maybe she could use those, somehow. Her gaze roved back to him, the Smith, and the Butcher he'd used to try and _fool _her into giving up.

"That the best you got?" she taunted. "Come at me, bro."

Rage.

The wolf heads dove for her, howling; the Insanity Butcher was not far behind. The room began to blaze a fervent orange.


	48. Someone Else's Nightmare

She brought down the cleaver over and over again across the fallen monster's clavicle. It writhed and screamed and shuddered. Then there was a moment, a horrible moment, when the demonic features and metal all receded. There, laying beneath her hand, was Travis Grady, bloody, eyes wide.

"Heather!" Travis begged, grabbing at her. "Heather, it's not-!"

She brought down the cleaver again! Again! Again! She'd fallen for this _last time,_ not fifteen minutes ago and it had nearly cost her life; she would not fall for it again! His arms and fingers contorted, his face a mask of agony as she cleaved open flesh, muscle, bone, and organs.

With a scream of fury, she embedded the cleaver deep into his rib cage. With his fingers twitching spasmodically through the air, she grabbed the cleaver in both hands and dragged it diagonally across him, slitting him open from shoulder to hip.

"H-hea..."

Heather shuddered. As 'Travis' lay bloody and twitching, she became gradually aware of his heartbeat. She wrenched the cleaver out, and reclaimed her grip on its slick handle. She stood and then leaned forward over the dying monster.

Above them, the dog/snake/hydra necks she ought to have already severed by this point in the fight instead wriggled and jerked about, caught in a thick net of meat hooks, unable to move. Heather had done that to them; somehow, by force of will. She looked up at them briefly, then lowered her eyes back to the corpse of the man. She reached down her empty hand, grabbed that trucking cap by the brim, and took it from him.

"_Heath..._"

She shook her head. "You're not real," she answered, and brought the cleaver down with a decisive chop. The Fake Travis Grady—Insanity—The Butcher—went limp. The hydra heads writhed and disintegrated away into ash. The remaining canvases shuddered, cleaver-slices appearing in each of them as they tumbled to shreds.

From where they'd been suspended by meat hooks, eviscerated bodies fell to the ground with sickening splats all around her, only to ignite and burn softly away. Within moments, the entire room was empty; empty save for "Travis Grady's" corpse splayed out and butchered in the middle of the room.

"You weren't real. But if there was any truth to that whole display," she murmured, "I forgive _him_."

Aching and covered in blood—much of it her own—dirty, scraped, and bruised; exhausted, and feeling nauseous; Heather Mason let both arms fall slack at her side. She lifted up her head; blonde hair sticky with red clinging to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, hurting and stretching and anchoring herself in the _now. _

"Valtiel," she murmured, opening her eyes and visually searching the ventilation shafts high above her. "Are you there...?"

She didn't get an answer, but she heard the soft shuffling and padding sounds of a crawling boogieman across aluminum. A faint smile turned up the corners of her mouth. 

"Come down?" she implored. Never in all her life had she ever wanted to see a Silent Hill monster so badly. Valtiel was no prettier a monster than any other: Writhing and wiggling, over six feet tall and weighing in like a Pyramid Monster, he was engraved with cult symbols, faceless, and had a mouth sprouting asymmetrically from the side of his head. But she would have given _anything_ to see him.

The pain and craziness of the last few days had numbed these wounds, but now in the lull between moments, Heather Mason recalled her fantastic Halloween decorations, and her heart clenched painfully in her chest. She heard some more shuffling high above her, and then nothing.

If killing Silent Hill meant she'd never get to see him again, would she be able to do it?

She'd have to.

But it would be hard.

Heather watched the ceiling for a long time, lost in thought. "I love you," she told the monstrous angel truthfully, and her voice cracked slightly. "And I miss you. _Please_ remember me."

This time she didn't receive any answer or sound of shuffling from above. After a long moment, she dropped the pilfered cleaver, reclaimed her katana, and wiped it clean on "Travis Grady's" clothes. Hmm. A cursory look around revealed the blade's wooden sheathe had also fallen down into the room, and she limped over, picked it up, and tethered to her side. She righted Travis's cap upon her head to make sure she wouldn't lose it. And before she left, she made sure to look around and pick up his fireman's axe. Where was her pistol, actually? She had the presence of mind to look for that, too.

Did she have everything? Was she all packed up and ready to leave?

It was only after Heather had exited the room, passed the threshold, and walked about thirty feet towards the exit that the weight of her day finally crashed down on her. Her shoulders slumped, and she fought—with everything in her—the temptation to look back into the room at "Travis Grady's" corpse.

"It hasn't been twenty-four hours yet," she choked. "I said I wouldn't have a breakdown today. Gotta get back to the lighthouse for that."

She though of the Red Pyramid waiting for her at the top of the Elementary school, and of the vision she'd had of the Red God while fighting Insanity, and she tried to figure out if she'd end up exiting the school just to get bisected by a Great Knife.

The hell had she gotten herself into?

* * *

Insanity was dead.

Like a great velvet curtain, the inhibiting protection of the covenant lifted from the elementary school. The wind and earth stopped stirring up from within, and went silent.

Poised as a sentinel before the entrance, the Red Pyramid twitched as it lifted. A moment, he lingered, as the protection died entirely. Then the chains of his agreement were gone. He tore his knife from the ground and surged forward. The heavy tip of the weapon fell behind him with a metallic clamor; then shrieked as he headed inward.

His sibling was calling him.

For a moment, they had agreed on something.

* * *

Something was up.

Heather didn't remember walking down these passageways on her route in. The Elementary School had of course been distorted and turned into a winding maze by silent hill, but Heather had just passed through it less than half an hour ago. Now she couldn't recognize_ anything_.

This did not match any of her preexisting experiences in Silent Hill.

In Heather's experience, big cornerstone encounters with monsters usually resulted in the area returning to 'normal' (or semi-normal) as one exited. The route _away _from Insanity should have been straightforward and easy compared to the trials and tribulations leading up to it. 

_Should have been, _but _wasn't_. As she pushed open a door, Heather made the duck of her life as something doll-like swung a limb through the space her head had been occupying. Heather swore, backing up into the corner of the room and raising her katana.

Standing before her was some kind of mannequin, but it didn't look like any she'd seen either alone or with Alex. In fact it looked remarkably like a porcelain doll, with pale, white, flawless skin. It had long legs and arms with delicate articulated hands. Its face, however, appeared to be made of plastic; and it had melted and dripped its painted eyes and other features all over the place. It resembled a blob fish Heather had seen on the internet once, and was most unpleasant.

It advanced on her, then abruptly its body swung backwards at a dramatic, gravity-defying ninety degree angle that would have snapped a real woman's spine. A leg lifted gracefully into the air, the high-heeled tip filed into a deadly steel point.

Aha.

The mannequin slashed at her with the heel, the rest of her body drooping lifelessly on the ground behind her. Heather ducked again, letting the weapon stab into the wall behind her before making an upward slash with her katana. The leg was slit in two beautifully, as easily and cleanly as if he had been made of raw clay. 

A second later, blood began spurting from the wound in almost _comedic_ quantities. The creature spun about, flailed, smacked itself repeatedly into the ground, picked itself up, and then grabbed the earth with both delicate hands and jabbed at Heather with the other foot.

Disturbed and grossed out by how ridiculous this monster was, Heather severed the second leg. That action served to kill it. It flailed and spluttered about for a moment longer, then collapsed and flopped about in its blood for a bit. When it finally went still, Heather went up and nudged it with her toe.

"What the hell is..."

Her eyes lit up in recognition.

"I've seen one of these before. That time I opened a door to Nowhere, and a Pyramid Monster materialized and confronted me."

A strange, uncomfortable sensation rolled over her.

Heather had not been intended to survive Insanity. Silent Hill hadn't _written_ the path leading out. When she'd survived, she'd walked straight across Nowhere into someone else's nightmare. Yes, that had to be the answer; someone aside from her had been sucked into the Otherworld by Silent Hill. But who? A tourist? A helpless prison transfer? A cultist? There was no way of knowing. 

Knowing the town had multiple victims simultaneously wasn't exactly strange. Hadn't James met two other people trapped in the town? Hadn't Walter involved many more lives than just Henry's and Eileen's?

With those possibilities in mind, some distressing, some merely interesting, Heather Mason stepped forward again. She had to kill a mastiff-like black dog, and another weird porcelain mannequin as she pressed through the next hall. When she found herself at a dead end, she started testing the different doors that might lead further into the elementary school maze. There had to be a way out of the hell world; or, at least, she wagered one would eventually come into being just because she was looking for it.

The first three handles yielded no fruit, but the fourth door opened. Heather stepped into the room.

Then she paused and stared.

A male figure was pressed up against the school desk, There were thick, red scars burnt up and down over his limbs, and his hands were blackened and split open as if he'd stuck them in a fire. His long butcher's smock was more like a brown apron. Beneath, he wore cameo leggings and perhaps hunting boots.

_I sure am up to my ears in executioners lately._

It had a vaguely pyramidal helmet, but it was black, with extra panes in the front and rear that gave it more internal space and permitted it to be smaller. It was only a foot taller than Heather, and that included the extra height of the helmet. Flung over top of the desk before it was a porcelain mannequin, its back arched in such a ridiculous position that it surely would have broken a human's spine.

The Pyramid was clutching the other monster's flesh so tightly and abusively that the ceramic had cracked in places, and blood was seeping out; and 'he' was thrusting 'his' hips against it with a force and intent that instantaneously suggested rape. Neither the fact that he was fully clothed, nor the likelihood that he lacked genitalia, made the scene any less disturbing.

_What the hell has been happening in this school? I mean, recently?_

Heather stared in baffled horror, watching as the Pyramid-Thing hammered relentlessly into his captured prey; then altered his grip to maul the doll's perfectly spherical breasts. Its hips were starting to shatter from the abuse, and soon it would be jettisoning blood all over the room in the grossest parody of a sexual climax that Heather had ever been forced to imagine. Not wanting to see that, she began backing out of the room. Neither monster seemed to have notice her, and she took that as a small blessing.

The elementary school was old, and its hell-world counterpart shared just a few of its attributes. As she backed away Heather's boot came down on a warped piece of metal, and the material creaked with rust and age.

The Pyramid-Thing immediately stopped what he was doing and whirled towards her, setting a hand on the spear beside him. She hadn't noticed the weapon earlier, but it was significantly lighter in appearance than a massive Great Knife.

"I'm not whoever it is you've been put here to punish," she told it, but took another step backwards for good measure. Still shaken from her ordeal with Insanity, exhausted and slightly confused, Heather wasn't exactly in the most commanding mood

The Pyramid-Thing cocked his head like a bird or dog, and seemed perplexed. People clearly didn't usually talk to him. Usually they screamed, ran, begged, but never _talked_. The way she was stepping back from him, though, perhaps that was familiar.

Heather took another step backwards, wanting to get away from this crazy scene.

A shivver passed through the Pyramid Thing, and he took a step towards her, clutching his spear.

She smelled familiar, like prey, like... like something he'd ween _waiting_ to kill...

There was nothing slow or ponderous about the monster's movements, and that sent an alarm bell ringing in Heather's mind. She tensed, and glared at him assertively. "Go back to your mannequin," she growled, "You're specific to one dude's sin, and I have _nothing_ to do with you, rape, murder, or whatever the fuck it is you're here for. Hell I shouldn't even _be_ here!"

He released the spear with one hand and seemed taken aback. Heather worked to remember the power she'd held over Alex's Pyramid Monster and over the various sack babies and other creatures throughout Silent Hill. But then she thought of the Red God, and a trickle of doubt wormed into her.

_He wants to kill me. Xuchibara specifically wants to kill me. He's said he wanted to kill me. He's repeatedly tried to kill me. He's used tricks I've never seen used before, especially the thing with imitating Travis. This isn't the same situation as that time I chased off that original boogeyman. Something's changed. I don't even know if my own Red Pyramid is still friendly. I have to get out of here._

Then Heather took another step backwards and either her doubt or her retreating motion sent another bolt of excitement through the black-helmed monster. He grabbed the spear with both hands, and took one more curious step in her direction.

"Don't you _dare_-"

He took another provocative step, like an animal, or a child; like he wanted to see what she'd do. His motions were quick; as quick as the Butcher's had been; and smooth. There was, however, one large difference between Pyramid Monsters and the Butcher that made fighting it in her condition and with her level of exhaustion very ill-advised...

Pyramid Monsters were typically _indestructible._

_Oh fuck._

Then she was bolting down the hallway, and the Black-Pyramid was in fast pursuit. Fast. He was _running_.

_What the fuck. What the shit, he can _ _run! Executioners do not run! Pyramid Monsters do not run!_

Somebody else was impacting this place, and they did not share in the cult background mythology. 

Heather skid around a corner and heard an echoing skid not far behind her. Holy _hell_ this thing _could definitely run._ Despite carrying a large metal helmet and weighing considerably more than she did, he was hot on her tail. This was cheating! Pyramid Monsters did not run. They were slow, methodical, unstoppable, relentless, and certainly _not_ hasty!

But the thing behind her was growling excitedly, and _gaining! _Then a low metal howl hooted up excitedly just a few paces behind her, and Heather Mason realized what Silent Hill might have done... Of course. Of _course_. It had combined her least favorite animal in the world with Silent Hill's single most terrifying monster.

_Like a fucking dog, _she wailed mentally. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, I ran and he chased completely because I ran!_

She rolled over a pile of discarded desks, ducked under the slice of a confused mannequin, and kept running.

The Pyramid thing _jumped _over the fallen desks. With spear in hand, he lanced straight through the mannequin's grotesque plastic head, tearing it from its body. As he did so, he unleashed another hell-hound howl after Heather. He'd been slowed for just a second but now he was sounded like he was gaining on her again, and both of them could tell.

_Do I turn around and face it down? Its chasing because I ran, it might stop if I confront it!_

That might have been the only way to stop it, but Heather wasn't immoral and couldn't count on Valtiel or her own skills at the moment. One strike from that spear, and she was dead. She didn't have the luxury of stopping. She couldn't stop. Well, couldn't she fight and try to drive it off? No, who the hell was she kidding even asking the question; she was _exhausted. _Her lungs wanted to give ought right now, her leg was killing her, her one arm had been dislocated, and her other arm had been pounded on with a cleaver.

Heather swore, jumped and kicked against a wall to change her momentum, a trick which sent her full speed down an adjoining hallway. The Pyramid Thing skid briefly past the hallway before changing directions and scrambling after her. The trick bought Heather a few yards of distance, but it wasn't much. She had to think of something! Damn it, where were all the mannequins and ceiling monsters and randomly-placed traps when she needed them!?

Silent Hill! It was in adrenaline mode. She wasn't going to see a damned thing that didn't help intensify her terror of the Black-Pyramid.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! _She saw another branch in the hallway and grabbed hold of the corner so she could whip herself around the corner and head right. Except the right branch dead-ended in a collapsed heap of rubble and broken blackboards. Halter skid to a halt, back-pedaled, and then lunged to the side and swung out wildly with her katana as a spear stabbed through the space she'd been occupying.

It had caught up.

The spear banked its momentum and stabbed down at her. Heather sucked in a hard breath of air when she saw it coming and pushed herself closer to him/it/whatever pronoun she was using at the moment to get under his arms and into an awkward position to stab at, just for a second. She tried to drag her katana blade through his side as she ran back the way they'd came, but as the weapon connected with him, it felt as if she were drawing a stick over a hard plastic surface. There was some give, and she was pretty sure she'd managed to hit flesh, but the wound was negligible.

_A stab vest. He's wearing a stab vest! Because my life could indeed suck more than it did half an hour ago. Why the hell is he wearing a stab vest!?_

The Pyramid turned as fast as he could, swinging wide with his spear tip, and slicing a shallow laceration through her shirt and the flesh of her back. Heather didn't scream. She needed every draw of air she could get. A rush of horror and adrenaline poured through her, and she moved as fast as her legs could possibly could. She pulled out her gun with one hand, and aimed blindly behind her. BAM. BAM. Enthusiastic howls suggested she'd failed to hit him.

At the end of the hallway she hit the side wall and pushed off of it with a foot, Her momentum shot her right under the overhead sweep of a spear, and put her headed in a new direction going _just_ a little faster than him. If she could gain a few feet, she could turn around and slow him down with some bullets-

Standing directly in front of Heather in the new hallway was _another_ Pyramid monster, and it roared to shake the room. It had a Great Knife in hand, and the weapon was drawn back for a massive horizontal swipe.

_Dear God in Heaven, I hate, I hate, I HATE THIS PLACE._

Heather judged the timing on that swing and dove forward down just beneath it. The metal passed over her head, and she heard a sharp, metallic BAM from somewhere behind her. Time seemed to slow as Heather tumbled to her feet at the Knife-Wielding Pyramid Monster's side. She recognized its height, suddenly, and it's clothing, and the massive red helm crowning its head. More than any of these things, she recognized the lattice of white scars crisscrossing it's flesh.

_Mine!_

_Hostile? _

_Crimson Diety?_

_Oh God, please be here to help me. _

Heather grabbed onto her gigantic monster and scrambled behind him, clinging to his skirt like a life raft. Her heart hammered furiously, blotting out most high-level thinking. Back down the hall, the Black-Pyramid was reeling as if someone had just banged a particularly unpleasant gong directly over his head (actually, they pretty much had; it appeared her monster had struck it full force in the helmet.)

A glance upward revealed her Samael—could they _both_ be called Samael?—oh the hell with this she was getting _so confused_ where people, gods, and monsters all started and began. _Whatever _and _whomever_ he was, he stood tall with his arms spread out aggressively and the Great Knife held aloft for another strike if necessary.

The Black-Pyramid grumbled in confusion, holding its spear in both hands and peering at her from the edge of the Knife's striking range. He paced to the left, then to the right. Apparently the lack of bloodshed (or rape) was really driving him mad, because after a moment he paused and roared defiantly at her Boogieman. Samael—she was going to stick with calling just _one_ of them Samael—roared dominantly back. She felt the first boom through her feet; the second rattled her teeth.

_He's protecting me_. _Samael's protecting me._

The Black Pyramid took a step forward, lashing out with his spear. The Red Pyramid responded with an aggressive step forward and an equally aggressive hiss. As Heather clung shaking to her monster's side, the two entitles growled, bellowed, jerked their heads, and poked their weapons at one another.

They looked like two roosters.

In sixty seconds of machismo and showmanship, the two monsters blew apart any notions Heather had that Silent Hill's inner workings could be understood. Where moments ago her mind had been turning over the complex problems of psychology, religion, faith, belief, reality, and mortality; these two monsters now stomped and hissed at each other like rival stags.

Because nothing in Silent Hill was allowed to remain consistent for long enough to Heather Mason to make an informed choice about what was going on. Ever. Also, she was probably going crazy.

Shaking, Heather stood up a little straighter. She was _probably_ safe, and the adrenaline was draining from her system. As she moved, her Pyramid-Thing reached down with his empty hand and grabbed hold of her shoulder. Heather cried out in surprise, then shivered when she realized the grasp was firm but non-hostile. She transferred her grasp from his skirt to his forearm, her bloodied fingertips clenching tightly around a bicep the size of her leg muscles. The monster's fingers squeezed gently.

_This is definitely 'protecting', right? And not something more sinister? _She wasn't sure she was allowed to believe that. If she dared to believe it, she might jinx it.

A low growl. Another. A sharp hiss. Another minute of posturing. Then the Black-Pyramid slowly backed up. He tossed his head once, then twice. Then he gave an elephantine snort and a shake of his head, and turned about and headed away from them. Within moments, he was gone. Back to tormenting mannequins and stalking some terrified person, no doubt. They heard dog and wolf-like howls in the distance as he started up another chase.

Heather watched the Black Pyramid go, and then looked up at her much taller monster. He remained frozen for a bit mid-posturing. Only once he appeared sure the danger had passed did her Boogieman dropped the tip of his knife back to the ground. He rumbled softly, and 'looked' down at her. His tongue came out and twitched through the air for a moment.

_He's still protecting me,_ she allowed herself to believe.

The tongue went still and his grip tightened. Then his hand lifted up from her shoulder and started grabbing at her. The gropes were firm and a little rough, and, after what she'd just seen, Heather was more than a little unnerved. She shoved at the grasping limb reflexively, then grimaced when the Pyramid monster advanced on her. His fingers clenched down on her previously dislocated shoulder and she screamed. He released instantly and gave a sharp rumble in response to finding the injury. 

Heather grimaced up at him.

His fingers remained curled midair, and he was giving little tosses of his head, his tongue snaking back and forward before pointing towards her shoulder. 

_You smell blood,_ she realized._ Were you trying to figure out if I was hurt?_

He turned fully towards her and hunkered down slightly, grasping over her arms. Then his tongue came up and touched about her neck and face. He found the wound in her leg from the Butcher's cleaver and growled, examining it. His tongue at last came to rest on the laceration in her back. _This_ injury seemed to offend him most of all. He gave a bellow of displeasure, his helmet turning to glare in the direction the Black Pyramid had just disappeared.

Heather chuckled weakly. "Yeah, well. Not everyone can be a _gentleman_ like you," she teased, and her head reeled because truly she had no idea why Samael was fussing all over her. It made her heart hurt and her breath catch in her throat, and she wanted to hug him and cry. Hadn't this monster _killed _her on accident not even a full day ago?

He wasn't paying attention; he was still glaring after the Black Pyramid and seething. Heather looked up at him, and once more she felt all the exhaustion, the pain, the uncertainty, and the tears of the day. It hadn't been twenty-four hours yet, but again she felt her walls crumbling.

"Alex," she said softly, reaching up and grasping at the monster's forearm. The helmet whipped around to look at her so fast the tip could have sliced a man's head off—if a man had been taller than Heather was. "A-Alex... I'm tired..."

Her monster stared at her for a very long moment. Then he straightened, and offered her his bloodstained hand. She took it trustingly. When he tuned about and the passages of the school began to warp and twist, she followed.

Watching silently from the ventilation shafts, a skittering angel went unobserved. He hunkered down on the bottom of the aluminum passage and lowered his chin down to rest behind his gloved knuckles, then shifted about till he was comfortable. He pouted.

Not like.

Too much confusion.

He rubbed his face into his hands, troubled but relieved.

At least the Mother was safe.

* * *

Whatever was happening in Silent Hill's Otherworld at the moment, it couldn't be good. Travis had collapsed to his knees near the school grounds. When he'd been unable to rise, Murphy had taken one arm and Henry the other, and they'd gotten him back to the car and then to the Lighthouse as fast as possible. He hadn't spoke to them, and by his grimaces of pain _something_ was happening on the other side.

They arrived to find Eileen craning curiously over a completely comatose Walter Sullivan, and poking him slightly with her gun. The fact that he didn't move simultaneously seemed to be reassuring and distressing to her. When the boys reentered she stood up straight as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. Henry blinked. Eileen blinked. Then she saw the condition Travis was in and she rushed up to help them.

They got Travis upstairs to one of the guest rooms; nearby, Laura was caring for James and Elle was standing beside her, looking concerned. "He's not waking up," Laura mumbled nervously with regards to her father. If Travis had been able to speak, he might have tried to explain why. As it was, Travis only winced as his friends helped him settle down on his own bed. Eileen brought him a cup of tea and some pain relievers, but he waved them both away.

"The hell's happening?" Douglass asked as he joined them. "James, Walter, and now Travis? What happened at the school?"

"Nothing. Nothing to explain this. Travis mentioned Heather," Murphy said. "She might be fighting something or in trouble, but if so I don't know why they're all reeling."

Henry looked pensive, but shook his head. "We can try and wait it out."

Elle had come over to investigate Travis's condition. Then she looked at the others. "We might lose our window to act if they need our help."

Henry thought about this and then looked at Travis, wordlessly imploring him to communicate anything at all.

"J-just..." the trucker winced. "Just wait."

It was almost an hour later when James's pulse suddenly returned to acceptable levels, and some warmth blushed to his cheeks. Travis flinched as if he'd been struck and then sighed, slumping weakly down to the bed.

"What just happened?" the convict asked. Travis found himself unable to answer for the moment.

For a moment, the party was lost for words. Then they heard heavy footfalls plodding up the stairs. The hairs on the back of Eileen's neck stood up, and she grabbed Henry's arm. Alerted by her distress, he turned towards the room entry way. It dawned on him and then everyone else that none of their party members were still downstairs. 

A moment later, Walter Sullivan arrived on the second floor landing and walked up to the doorway leading into the room they were gathered in. His frayed and stained coat hung about him unbuttoned and in tattered, showing off the fresh bandages around his torso and the truncated stump of his arm.

"They'll recover now," he said softly. "It's over."

"Over?" Eileen demanded, trembling. "Is Heather alright!?"

"Sister's fine," Walter answered, voice tired. "She'll be back soon, I think."

"You're up!" Laura exclaimed as she clambered to her feet and came up to have a look. Walter glanced at her like he was puzzled. "My dad... you said he's going to be alright?" Sullivan tilted his head to the side, blinked, and nodded.

Laura sighed and looked back at where her father was now resting peacefully. She nodded and turned back to Walter. Then she seemed to take stock of him, and a frown tugged down the left corner of her mouth.

"You're a mess," she noted.

Walter lowered his head and gave a small, almost coy smile despite his apparent exhaustion. His fingertips drifted towards his left pocket, towards...

"Well... Come on then," she said, and then suddenly the prickly little blonde had grabbed the undead serial killer by the arm and was hauling him down the hallway to the bathroom. "I'm sure we have towels or something. That coat's a goner, I hope you know. Just like my hair..."

Walter Sullivan looked positively baffled. With his only good arm now in Laura's possession he couldn't reach any of his weapons. He considered pulling free but—well, Laura must have been unable to feel the gazes of other people, because she continue to pull him along despite the frighteningly intense stare he levied on her._  
_

In disbelief, Eileen and Henry crept up to the doorway. Henry poked his head out farthest, with Eileen just behind him.

"Oh my God," Eileen whispered. "James is going to_ kill_ us."

Henry stared for a moment, then looked down and raked through his memories. "Eileen... what does Laura do for a living again?"

"What? I don't know. Waiting tables? Dancing on tables?" Eileen threw her arms in the air. 

Henry shook his head. "Eileen she's Alex's age," he disagreed. "She went to school, I remember. James didn't want to talk about it much..."

"A BA in Private Escorting?" Eileen asked sarcastically.

"Eileen, I think Laura's a licensed Physician Assistant."

Eileen gaped at him, recalling a Bestiary filled with Silent Hill nurses, including two huge-boobed versions recently included by Alex Shepherd.

Henry nodded. "An Emergency Care Physician Assistant," he agreed with himself.

"James is going to _kill us_."


	49. Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing some clean-up of these chapters. The battle with the Insanity Butcher was particularly cluttered, and really benefitted from a thorough cleaning.

"Edwin!"

Edwin closed his eyes and sighed inwardly, preparing himself for whatever verbal onslaught Patricia Ackerman had gotten into her head to vomit out. The woman was starting to get intolerable, but tolerance was precisely the dogma that Edwin had been trying to maintain. He turned about to greet her. "Yes, Patricia?"

"I hear you've sent men back to watch the lighthouse," she observed in what she must have presumed was a curious tone. "Would you like to _explain_ your reasoning?"

Edwin gave a smile so natural and gentle that, in the face of Patricia's own snideness, all the faithful in their vicinity immediately knew who was the better-informed and the more in-control of the two leaders. "I made a miscalculation earlier," Edwin explained patiently. "I am compensating."

"A 'miscalculation?'" Patricia asked sweetly, eyes fierce and hungry. "Pray tell."

"When I asked Xipe to interceded on our behalf, she made it known to me that the Mother had been slain."

"Yes, yes, we know that already," Patricia pushed irritably. "What's new?"

"I believe in her injured state, she may have been deceived."

The woman's eyes narrowed, a wide smile spreading over her face. She could barely believed Edwin had handed her such ammunition.

"_Your_ doll?" she asked almost sympathetically, "your little summoned trinket was _mistaken_? My my. Are you _sure_? I thought the Scribe could _never_ be wrong. Was this... a conjuring error?"

Edwin chuckled as he watched a dragon coil up in Patricia's mind, ready to bite his head off. "Perhaps," he gave her. "I-"

"Perhaps? Per_haps_?" Patricia squealed delightedly. "The great Edwin is unsure? So many of his faithful dead, and he leads us forward with 'perhaps'? Oh this is dreadful, you know. I had _so_ much faith in your _sureness_... I'm sure many others did as well..."

"Well, Patricia, if you have a sound plan, by all means go and attempt to secure Alessa Gillespie with your considerable resources."

The woman frowned sourly.

"For now, I am concerned her witchcraft is still a danger to the faithful. Alive or dead, her blasphemy continues to corrupt the Lighthouse. For, perhaps of more immediate importance: Her allies have refused to leave the town. That was a point I was attempting to address just now."

He lifted his voice, returning his attention to those around him. "As I was saying, I am greatly concerned by these heretics, these enemies of God. Whether the Mother is alive and capable of harnessing their help is of no consequence to this observation: we simply must deal with them."

"And what solution are you proposing?" Patricia growled.

Edwin nodded. "We shall bring them into our world. The Lighthouse remains blasphemous and so there is a possibility it will remain closed to us for a time. In that case, it will become their prison until they can either be dealt with or made to see reason. And if the mother lives, she has been deliberately protecting them from us. Which means bringing them here will either render them helpless or give us the same opportunity that Alex Shepherd did."

"Opportunity? The one that ended in so many of your faithful dead?" Patricia inquired.

"Next time I shall be careful to provide oversight on your personal requests to the Sect of Valtiel," Edwin offered, "so that you do not make such errors in your protective spells twice."

The woman's face nearly went purple with rage.

"In the meantime, we shall go unobserved and wait for an opportunity; The scouts I send out included."

* * *

The Air Raid Siren had James Sunderland bolting upright out of bed and out of his room before he even registered he was awake.

Murphy had been talking with Travis about what Heather must have just gone through. The latter had a tea in hand and was just getting off the bed to make his way downstairs. Eileen and Henry were keeping a bewildered eye on the upstairs bathroom. Elle was downstairs, researching with Douglas.

Though they were all in different locations and engaged in different tasks, they each heard the siren clearly, and looked around in alarm. Travis blinked at James.

"Oh no," James mumbled. "Oh no, oh no..."

Murphy frowned, "Is that a...?" He heard a crack of thunder and his eyes went wide; the mirrors began to shudder and de-saturate, rust crawling over the reflected forms therein.

Henry looked around quietly, taking in the fog that had started rolling across the exterior windows. "We're transitioning," he noted, then winced and grabbed at his forehead. A burst of radio static crackled through the air and when everyone around him seemed to flicker his eyes went wide and he grabbed his wife's arm "Hold on to someone!" he called, and it was the first loud sound many of those assembled had ever heard Henry Townshend make. "They're trying to pull us out of the Lighthouse!"

Vision flickered rapidly. Fog forced its way through the seams of closed windows and the Sirens blared; a torrent of rain came pounding down on the roof and window planes. People cried out and clung to whatever and whoever was available. Eileen grabbed James's arm at the very last moment.

_Not again not again not again not again not-!_

Everything went black.

The first thing Henry registered when he woke up on the floor was that Eileen Townshend was partially underneath him. The feeling of her nearby made him shudder and he hugged her convulsively close to his chest. The motion jerked her awake and she blinked and shifted about in confusion.

"Henry," she mumbled, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her spouse nodded and kissed her hair.

Footsteps made the two of them tense up, but when they looked to see who was up and about, they found a strange man standing over them whose face they could almost recognize, and who was not—thankfully—Walter Sullivan.

"Doctor Kaufmann?" Eileen hazarded.

The psychiatrist nodded quietly. "We felt you come in," he explained, leaning over and offering them some help up. Henry took the offered hand first, and then helped up Eileen himself.

"Do you know what happened?" the psychiatrist asked.

"The cult—or whoever opened the _Otherworld_ on us—was also trying to pull a few of us out of the Lighthouse," Henry noted.

"Well you all seem to have held on," Kaufmann responded. "They have very little power in this place. It's a safehouse."

Soft shuddering gasps nearby directed their attention to where an exhausted Travis and a concerned Lisa Garland were trying to calm down Murphy Pendleton. Their newest party member had been given the least amount of time to recover from his last experience in Silent Hill, and though he'd put up a brave front in the Elementary school, the cracks in his armor had finally shown through.

He and Travis must have avoided getting conjured out of the Lighthouse by grabbing on to each-other, but now the newest survivor was curled up in a corner of the room, covering his face and hyperventilating. He rocked back and forward, whispering nonsense.

"Murph..." Travis was trying to reassure him.

"I'll get him something to try and calm him down," Lisa offered. The truck driver hesitated for a moment, before nodding reluctantly. Murphy really did look like he might need more than a calm reassuring voice to pull him out of this.

Henry looked to Kaufmann, "What about Elle and Douglas?"

The doctor nodded reassuringly. "They're both fine. Those of you who haven't been directly targeted by the town before seemed to have made it through with less of a fuss. For instance..."

Kaufmann gestured over to where Laura was anxiously dabbing her father's head with a damp cloth. James was awake, but unresponsive. A damp, shirtless and slightly violated looking Walter Sullivan was watching curiously from a few feet behind her, perhaps trying to determine what his opinion on this whole matter was. One thing was certain: Laura had a way of confusing people. A second thing was also certain; Eileen was very glad Walter hadn't sported any leg injuries.

"Do you have any news of Heather?" Henry asked Kaufmann. "We haven't had contact with her all day."

The doctor shook his head. "The last time I saw her, you spoke with her through the parlor mirror. Have you seen her more recently?"

"Walter says she's alright, but only a few hours ago we met Edwin, and he said she was dead."

"No," Kaufmann disagreed, "I wouldn't still be here if she were dead." He glanced curiously at where the bandaged undead blonde man was watching Laura Sunderland. "I was wondering where that one had gotten to... Is there a reason to be concerned? The form he's taking is by no means his most socially pleasant."

Eileen choked out a laugh. "Concerned? Concerned!" she snickered. "Aha! Hahah!"

Henry rubbed his wife's arm reassuringly. "I think Laura may have temporarily derailed him and bought us some time to analyze his presence; but in that case we need to keep an eye on _her_. This place is safe?"

The doctor nodded. "As safe as one can be in Silent Hill. You should all come downstairs; we'll get you some food and we can all share what we've learned so far. If we're lucky, I... I hope Heather will be home soon."

* * *

When stressed, James Sunderland seemed only to operate on an 'as-needed' basis. He sat numb and quiet at the dinner table, staring blankly down at his full plate. It took every last one of Laura's maternal instincts to coax him into eating a few spoonfuls of puddling.

On the other side of the table, Murphy was at least functional. Lisa had given him something to take the edge off, and though he was slightly 'out of it,' he'd been able to both feed himself and participate in their conversation. Travis wagered that half of Murphy's 'medication' had been giving him enough time for the initial shock to wear off, and at least a quarter was owed to the placebo effect. Still, after making sure the ex-convict was alright, he gave Miss Garland a thankful nod.

Walter had declined to join them, and was resting instead on a couch in the atrium.

"So, the reason for all the crazy weather," Laura began. "It's because we're in the _Otherworld_ right now? It doesn't feel that different."

Kaufmann nodded. "This Lighthouse was a place of power for Heather, and Silent Hill has interpreted that and forged it into a safe house. So far, no monsters or cultists have come within range of the Lighthouse beacon."

"Well," Lisa interjected, "except one."

"Walter?" Eileen guessed.

"Oh, well, he's _mostly_ human, isn't he?" Lisa blushed, not having thought of that. "I guess he's a cultist. He hasn't hurt anyone yet, though. I hope it stays that way."

Henry frowned. "You meant an _actual_ monster? What kind?"

Lisa frowned. "You didn't see _it_?" she stressed the the last word. "When you were looking through the mirror? Oh. I guess it must have been at the wrong angle, or you probably would have said something..."

"Saw what?" Douglass asked grouchily. Laura might not have sensed the change in the air since being pulled into the fog, but it was pricking up every hair on the back of the detective's neck. It was a terrible sensation, Silent Hill; like walking in to a Horror Movie where—as Murphy had sort of put it—you weren't the protagonist and there was no idea if you were gonna make it out again!

Lisa "O-oh. Well. Did you notice the blood in the atrium? And on the mirror?"

"Meant to ask about that," Travis agreed.

"Was it Valtiel?" Henry asked hopefully.

Douglass huffed, but Kaufmann shook his head. "No. We haven't seen any sign of an avatar of Lobsel-Vith."

"Then what?" Travis asked, looking at Lisa.

She hesitated and looked to the doctor, who merely shrugged. "Well," the secretary began slowly. "I'm... I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Well, maybe Heather has an idea how it got in. It... it wasn't normal."

Travis frowned and was about to ask for more information.

Then _it_ happened.

"Sister's here," Walter alerted them. The entire table turned to look, and found him upright and leaning beside a Lighthouse window, peering out into the fog.

Swiftly, the dining table was abandoned, and no less than eleven people (or ten people and a Silent Hill monster, depending on what one considered Walter) were clustered around the front of the house, peering out. At first they didn't see anything.

"Walter, you're sure?" Henry inquired, as Eileen noticed how uncomfortably close the dead man was and quickly switched to another window.

Walter smiled. "Shh. Can you hear it?"

They couldn't hear anything in all the rain, or see anything in all the mist, but then Walter was dead and one supposed he might have super-human hearing. It was at least more _rainy_ than specifically _foggy_ right now, so one supposed they had Murphy—who had explained that rain was linked to his experiences in Silent Hill—to thank for that.

"There were cultists watching the house yesterday," Kaufmann told them quietly. "I'm sure they still have some spies out today."

Travis glanced at him. "We should get out there, then," he said aloud. "We don't want her getting ambushed right in front of the Lighthouse."

"I'll come," James said. Henry and Eileen pitched in. Murphy was still feeling too cloudy, and Douglass's knees were acting up; though that's not to say both didn't offer, and it was more that their friends sternly declined to let them come.

As the volunteers quickly pulled on their winter coats, the sounds of precipitation intensified. Sitting in the Atrium, a slightly dazed Murphy Pendleton looked upward towards the roof. "Oh," he said in recognition. "It's hailing." Indeed it was, and the ice was pounding around outside the house in quarter-sized chunks; not big enough to seriously maim a person, but certainly large enough to hurt.

Elle made everyone aware of the change in weather and Lisa gave the volunteers throw cushions to use as shields or to help stuff their hoods with. The four volunteers headed outward; their friends watched anxiously from inside.

After a few moments, Kaufmann jogged out to join the four. They turned in surprise to the psychiatrist, because he had no weapons or other means of defending himself, and in his nice coat with his favorite throw cushion over his head he looked a little out of place.

"You should be inside," Travis explained. "The others would have come out with us if we had enough weapons and they were fit to fight at the moment."

"What's wrong?" Henry asked, instead.

"Can you hear it?" Kaufmann whispered, listening intently. "Walter was right."

Standing out ahead of them, James was staring wide-eyed into the wind. "It's coming," he said unhappily.

Eileen lifted a brow. "It?" she asked.

Then they all heard it: A low pounding, like a heart-beat. _Thud-thud. Thud-thud._ It was the staggered pace of something incredibly heavy. _Thud-thud... Thud-thud..._ As it came closer and the gravel rasped, a high-pitched periodic whine became audible.

Then a towering red crest parted the smoky haze of powdered ice. It slipped forward in a swaying motion, with curls of mist whispering away in white puffs and tangles. A massive humanoid shape stepped through the curtains of hail, a long filthy smock about his legs, one arm thrown behind him to drag something across the asphalt ground. Rippling with inhumanly proportioned muscles and adorned in an overlarge red helm, the Pyramid Monster was very clearly a Boogeyman; described just as Alex Shepherd and James Sunderland had seen them.

"Jesus," Travis muttered.

The monster went stalk still as it heard Mr. Grady's voice. Then the front tip of the helm lifted slightly, parting hail as countless white pellets hammered into the red metal.

A sharp bang rang out through the roaring hail. The monster jerked backwards, and the assembled survivors realized James had just shot at it. He was standing with his gun lifted in both hands, pointing the barrel towards the monstrous creature. Why he'd chosen to hit the _head,_ of all parts, was unknown to the others.

"James-!" Henry cried out, grabbing for the man's shoulder. Kaufmann called out something.

Mr. Sunderland squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again, firing shot after shot into the helmet. He squeezed until his clip of ammunition was spent and the gun was clicking helplessly; the monster had been forced backwards a good ten yards, helm weaving back and forward, knocked off balance by all the loud banging about his head.

"James!" Henry tugged the man backwards. "Get back! The Lighthouse-!"

"HEY!" shouted a woman, angrily.

They knew that voice- it was Heather's! The group, which had been preparing to flee and to _drag_ James Sunderland away if necessary perked up in surprise. Unfortunately, that was all the time it took the Red Pyramid to recover from the assault. The monster lowered his head and threw a booming metallic roar their way; so low and so loud it seemed to shake existence.

"You- Just-!" They heard Heather sputter; then the Pyramid Monster was lumbering towards them, becoming clearer and more distinct in all the hail.

Eileen and Travis lifted their guns to shoot, but Kaufmann grabbed the trucker's arm. "Stop shooting him!" he pleaded. 

"Are you insane!?"

"You're going to hit her!" Kaufmann wailed.

Travis stiffened and then looked back towards the monster, whose charge seemed to have faltered. It was wavering back and forward again. Now much closer and more clearly visible, they could see the monster's bloodied hand was clutching a weapon larger than Travis was tall. The other arm, however, was scooped up against its chest, holding something very filthy and bloody.

A moment passed in confused silence. Then, slowly, awkwardly, the Pyramid Monster began setting down the thing—the person—it had been carrying.

It had been holding Heather Mason. It had been holding her up underneath its helm, shielding her from the hail. The arm lowered her into view and then eased its grip slowly to let her slip in a controlled manner to her feet. Covered in blood, grime, rust, and countless other foul substances, Heather looked at them with wide eyes.

"The _fuck_ did you get here?" she asked, horrified.

"Heather?" Travis was incredulous. James was mute and shaking where Henry was holding on to him.

"I already know who I am;" she exclaimed. "I'm trying to make sure you're who I think _you_ are!" Then, realizing she wasn't making any sense, Heather shut her eyes and smeared a hand over her face.

Travis grimaced. "Kid, I saw- I know what happened, but- How the _hell_...?"

"I-I-" Heather stammered. Above her, the Pyramid monster growled. It sniffed the air and a black tongue writhed about. Then it suddenly surged past her, dragging its blade along, helm tip fixated in James Sunderland's direction.

This time, James didn't need Henry to drag him; he stumbled backwards so fast he almost tripped.

"Hey- Hey stop that!" Heather called, grabbing at the Pyramid's skirt. The monster didn't listen to her, or even seem to notice her hold. Its forward motion dragged her along. "Hey! _Samael!_"

"Heather!" Henry pled, while trying to stop James from bolting off into Silent Hill or the lake or anywhere else.

"Samael- Hey, you- Augh!" She called and yanked and then finally darted in front of the monster and spread out her arms. "ALEX!"

The Pyramid Monster halted in his tracks, and cocked his head to the side like a dog. 

Heather glared up at the monster, and despite how uncomfortable and filthy she was, despite how exhausted and injured she'd become, despite the hail pounding down on her and leaving bruises on her shoulder, she had perhaps _never_ looked so intimidating.

"Don't you _dare_," she threatened the monster, despite barely coming up to his hip. He growled at her. She positioned herself directly between him and James. "Alex, don't you fucking _dare_."

A long, tense, _curious_ moment passed. Then a long black appendage, a tongue came snaking out from the underside of the helmet. The monster seemed to look briefly at James, then back at her. James. Her. Abruptly he seemed to make up his mind; he stepped up to Heather Mason, heaved his sword into a resting position, and lifted his free arm up over her head, blocking the hail.

Heather eyed the Pyramid Monster, and the arm he had provided for her. She lowered her arms (which had been thoroughly pelted) and slowly turned to face her friends.

"Heather," Kaufmann managed first, his voice relieved.

"Mary, Mother of God," Travis whispered, staring up at the monstrous creature and at the arm he/it was absolutely holding protectively over Heather Mason's head. "Kid, what have you done?"

Henry and Eileen had strangled expressions, but both had witnessed Valtiel's behavior around Heather, and neither had the traumatic frame of reference for Boogiemen that James and Travis (and Murphy) had.

"Y-you c-called it A-alex," James choked out hysterically. "Y-you-"

"Are all of you real?" Heather interrupted.

Travis lowered his eyes from the monster, looking down at the battered and miserable-looking girl who had just lost her boyfriend and been forced to re-lose two father figures, all in the course of a few days. She was wearing his cap, he realized, and had his axe tucked into her belt.

"Take a moment to decide," Kaufmann encouraged her. "You already know the answer."

For a moment, aside from James's whimpering and the pounding of very painful hail, there was silence. Then Heather took a step towards them. The Pyramid Monster rumbled and stretched out his arm a little; but when she continued to walk forward he did not pursue. She did not walk up to James, Henry, or Eileen. She walked past Kaufmann, and stopped directly in front of Travis Grady.

"...I know what you saw," the trucker began, glancing at the Pyramid Monster, who was currently topping the list as one of the most distressing anomalies Silent Hill had ever forced him to deal with. "I didn't see it, but I caught the jist of it. I don't know how to prove anything to you one way or another but- but I'm sorry you had to go through that. It wasn't me."

Heather studied his face quietly for a moment. Then she stepped forward and threw her arms around him. And despite all the years, the awkwardness, the reincarnations, the hail, and the thick layer of goo currently laminating Heather's coat, Travis Grady hugged her crushingly back.

Another moment passed in silence.

"You should keep the hat till we're out of this," the trucker said, half joking. "Come on. Let's get you inside." He tried to turn them both towards the Lighthouse but paused. "Is it going to follow us in?"

"Probably," Heather mumbled into the man's coat.

Travis hesitated, looking at James and then back at the monster. "Guess we gotta make that work, then..."

* * *

"Holy shit," muttered Douglas, who backed involuntarily away from the door. Most of the party did likewise. Murphy was quiet, his face blank. Walter ducked his head almost respectfully.

Henry got James in the door first and pressed him into Laura's arms.

"Holy crap!" she called. "That thing-!"

Then Heather was inside, and it was hard for the party to simultaneously back away from the doors and crowd around her. Douglas hurried forward again and took her coat, and then he hugged her and she hugged him tightly.

"Douglas!" Heather sighed, looking around at all those assembled, including Murphy whom she had never met, Walter Sullivan who was still a strange sort of wildcard, and Elle, whose presence made a lump form in her throat.

Eileen was the last person in the door. She and Murphy tried to get the door closed.

"That won't work," Walter observed, and he was right. 

Eileen jumped and looked at him. "What?"

Lisa agreed: "He'll simply unlock the door. Justice... Last time he was inside, he was nearly dead. But now..."

"It's coming _inside_?!" Laura demanded in a strangled voice.

"Well-" Heather tried to answer, pulling back from Douglass. "Um, he follows_ me_..."

The party went mostly silent as loud thuds plodded up the Lighthouse stairs. Eileen and Murphy slunk back away from the door; Travis asked Lisa to get them some towels and told Laura to get James out of there and into another room.

Then a massive bloodstained forearm, almost as long across as the door itself, slipped into view and grabbed at the door frame; gnarled knuckles digging into the wood. The thudding stopped, and they heard a final shriek as the knife came to a rest.

For a moment, the thing standing outside the Lighthouse merely sniffed and grumbled. HIs sinuous black tongue licked its way into view. A few seconds passed in tense silence, in which only a few party members seemed capable of thought or motion: Lisa was gathering supplies; Laura was unsuccessfully trying to guide her father into another room; Walter couched down by the fireplace, watching curiously.

Heather struggled away from Douglas—whose first instinct was to try and hold on to her!—and peered out the door frame and up at the towering monster.

"Jesus, I didn't realize just how cold it was out here," she muttered now that she no longer had her coat. "Hey. _Hey_." The helmeted tip drifted down to her. It seemed Samael was getting better at (or more interested in) recognizing when she was speaking to him. "Are you going to hurt anyone in here?"

The monster almost seemed to consider her. Heather was trying to be careful with her phrasing; Samael might have been non-hostile in their last few encounters, but she didn't want a repeat of the 'Can Xipe control you?' incident, so she was trying to avoid commands, implications, and insults._  
_

"I just want to know if I should expect more broken ribs in the near future," she said as tactfully as she could for a woman who'd spent hours engaged in pitched combat that day, who hadn't slept well the day before, who was wounded in several places, and who had enjoyed at least a dozen recent traumas.

The Pyramid Monster seemed to give this all a moment of deep contemplation and then dragged up his blade with a loud shriek and leaned it against the side of the house. Then he ducked down low to give his helmet the needed clearance, and stepped through the threshold and in under the tall Lighthouse ceilings.

Heather shuffled backwards to accommodate. The survivors backed up as one as he stood. His massive frame seemed to fill the room.

Heather felt he looked even bigger and more terrifying in a room with so many normal-sized people in it. The monster swept his 'gaze' over all those assembled. He barely seemed to see Henry, Eileen, Laura, or Douglas, but his attention lingered chillingly on almost every other person present.

Heather, who would have liked to delude herself into the idea that she was starting to understand her enormous companion and his moods, thought she felt the two longest stares were saved for Walter—whom he seemed to view with hostility—and Elle—for whom Heather could feel no understandable emotion coming from him at all. 

Heather lifted her hands and slowly placed one on the monster's arm and laid the other palm flat on his abdomen. "Easy," she coaxed. "Everyone here is a friend. Promise."

Samael—Alex?—growled softly (Walter Sullivan was definitely not anybody's friend) but then lowered his head back to 'look' at her. She knew she had his undevoted attention when his tongue slithered back out of the helm and dropped down to coil about her cheek and hair.

"Kid!" Travis called, not sure if she was under duress.

"He's mostly blind," she explained. "He can't really see through the helmet. Half the time he uses scent to compensate, or, well, taste. Technically they're a related sense, right?"

"Holy shit Heather," Douglas muttered. "You can see what that thing _is,_ right?"

(Murphy privately thought that was a valid question, particularly given his and Anne's experience with a 'Boogeyman.')

Heather looked back at the old detective hesitantly. "An eight or nine foot tall giant-knife-wielding representation of hate, rape, violence, sadomasochism, and vengeance?" she asked, thought a second, and then added: "With a giant red triangle helmet?" Pause. "Who may or may not be at least partially the avatar of an evil executioner god?"

Eileen laughed loudly, awkwardly, then sat down on the couch and covered her mouth.

Douglas cleared his throat. "Uh. S-so long as you know...?" he said in a strangled voice.

Walter held his tongue and stayed crouched down and apart from everyone, gaze fixed on the executioner.

"Um," Heather mumbled, then rubbed the back of her neck and laughed into the awkward silence. "I think I accidentally summoned him. He kinda rescued me. That's how I escaped the cult."

"What do you mean?" That was Henry. He'd stepped forward and his gaze seemed very nonjudgmental.

Heather tried to smile but it came out wrong; she had so many emotions going through her right now. She was experiencing joy at seeing all her friends together and unharmed, and being able to touch and hug them; but also simultaneously fear because they were in danger. This conversation was also forcing her to remember certain things she'd rather prefer not to think about. 

(Sliced up, diced up, like meat for a—)

"Uh. Um..." Her smile went hollow and broke. She grimaced and pushed slimy blood-coated hair out of her face. "I-I- Um. They tried to sacrifice me on a Seal of the Metatron. Some of you don't know, but Alessa knew how to use that Seal to extend her psychic abilities and invoke paranormal events; she basically used it to foil the cult. Anyway... when the cult tried to sacrifice _me_... Well, I can sort of influence the actions of a lot of Silent Hill's monsters... but at that specific time, during the attempted sacrifice... I _apparently _summoned an executioner demon.

"Him." Heather jerked her thumb backwards, and glanced behind herself. "He started attacking the cultists a-and... I passed out almost immediately. According to Kaufmann and Lisa, he carried me back here and he was so torn up with bullets he was literally falling apart."

She looked back towards her friends but specifically sought out Henry, and wordlessly begged him not to pry.

"He's been with me since then," she finished. 

"He's been docile towards you?" Henry hazarded, trying hard not to ask questions that would force her to talk about Alex.

"Doc- _No. _He's not Valtiel. We've gotten in at least two major fights, and he nearly killed me in one. For reference, please do not suggest anyone or anything can control his actions. I think it's in his instincts to find that very insulting."

Henry looked up at the monster and then back at her. "He can understand us then?"

"Kinda." Heather jumped as a tongue smeared down over her back wound. She shied to the side and waved at the appendage to try and get it to stop that. "More frequently, the relevant question is: Is he currently paying attention? Hey, asshole, that hurts."

The monster grumbled and stepped closer to her, nudging her shoulder gently with his forearm almost like he was trying to reassure her. _Alex_. Heather shuddered.

"You're injured?" Henry asked.

Heather laughed and then couldn't help but yawn and wipe her face. "I need a bath," she answered.

"Right up the stairs then," Kaufmann encouraged. "Will he...?"

"He'll probably follow me into the bathroom," she answered. "It's fine, I'll hose him down, too; he's just as filthy. Actually I'd wager about half the blood on me is his." She looked up at her monster. "Well? Shower sound good?"

The monster grumbled noncommittally. She took his hand in her much smaller one, and turned back, tugging him further into the house. After a few tugs he seemed to understand and slowly stepped towards her, his footfalls like low thunder. The survivors quickly parted for Heather and her Monster, watching with equal parts horror and curiosity.

"Heath-?" Travis called, concerned.

"I'm fine," she answered, tugging her monster carefully up the first step. "I'm slightly crazy, but then apparently I'm psychic so... I guess we can just pretend this is normal."

"Do you need help?"

"Not unless you're particularly interested in helping me luffa through a thousand years of Otherworld grime scrubbing this one's ass. Actually, do we have any steel wool? I'm pretty sure his skin is tough enough..."

When she'd disappeared and the thunderous footsteps were echoing over the ceiling, Travis continued staring for a moment. Then he covered his face with a hand.

"God, Kid, you give me ulcers. That's like the _same thing_ as the monster you just killed under the school."


	50. Intermission of Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gratuitous PH

It wasn't exactly that Heather _wanted_ the leftover hatred and soldiering instincts of her dead boyfriend in the bathroom with her while she was trying to shower; it was more that she just didn't trust him not to kill someone if she left him with the others on the ground floor. After all, semi-divine executioner monsters were notorious for that sort of thing. She needed to shower, and she needed her friends alive, and her brain was too exhausted to come up with a better solution than this.

Fortunately, Samael was blind. While Heather was pulling off her gore-saturated clothing on the fluffy bathroom mat in the center of the tile floor, it occurred to her that he actually had no way of knowing whether she was clothed or not. So there was probably nothing to worry about. But as she shimmied off her underthings, Heather realized this also meant there was a high possibility that she would get licked in the near future. Her concerns proved valid when a tongue started searching the air for her.

_Frick. Chances of being overheard? Low. Initiating emergency protocol "A" Word. Deployment in 3... 2... 1..._

Heather was getting a little loopy.

"Alex!" she exclaimed, ducking away. The tongue paused its aerial investigations. Heather was relieved. "I'm..." The monster tilted his helmet towards her, and she reflexively covered her breasts. "Oh boy. I'm going to take a shower. Can you not touch me for a few minutes?"

Samael/Alex grumbled uncertainly.

"I'll talk the whole time," she offered as she leaned into the shower to start the water. "So you can tell exactly where I am."

He seemed to feel this was an acceptable compromise, because the tongue retracted back up into his helmet.

_Crisis averted._

Unexpectedly, he twisted about to stare behind himself; an instant later, a knock came at the door.

"Kid?"

"Travis?" she called back. "Just about to step in."

"You okay in there?"

Heather raised a brow. "Operation Shower is under control sir. Although, ugh, I forgot to grab fresh clothing..."

"...You listed 'personification of rape' in your monster's credentials."

Travis was the one speaking, but Henry was standing quietly just beside him. Henry knew a little bit about Heather's own... 'fears.' He also had to wonder if they could set off an executioner in the same way sexual repression had for the other survivors.

Heather paused and glanced up towards her monster's helm. Unlike Valtiel, who had once reacted violently to a similar question, Samael seemed largely indifferent to discussions of rape, or maybe even vaguely incredulous. Heather choked back a laugh. Apparently 'Soldier-Alex' had been psychologically asexual. It sort of fit him. Actually, Heather had always wondered if many of Alex Shepherd's best traits had come from the part of him that had suffered that mental breakdown over Joshua's death. Apparently 'capacity for intimacy' had.

"Samael would like to inform you that it would take more than some paltry mortal flesh-ling to excite him, and if he'd wanted to embody sexual abuse, my state of dress is wholly irrelevant," Heather retorted wryly.

If nothing else, her sarcasm had a reassuring effect on the two men on the opposite side of the door.

The Red Pyramid turned back around to look at her, and he seemed ever so slightly surprised. Heather winked at him and then climbed into the shower, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

"Heath..." Travis began. "We heard the other name you called him out there."

That hit a nerve. Heather dropped the soap, flinched, and then involuntarily glanced at the bathroom sink. Her gut churned. The last time she'd been in this bathroom, she and Alex Shepherd had made love _right there_. It seemed like minutes ago and a million years, both at the same time.

"Bath now," she pleaded, feebly picking up the soap; "Heart-to-heart later." Her exhaustion had settled back into her bones. "Don't worry about him. He's not going to hurt me. Or, at least, he doesn't seem remotely interested in hurting me."

A low rumble came from her monstrous companion and he stepped across the bathroom, closing the gap between himself and the shower. Heather blinked up at him, wondering if she was about to be proved wrong about something fairly major. Fortunately, her sudden doubt didn't seem to have a provocative impact on him like it had on the Black Pyramid back in the school. Maybe too much individual personality had settled in. Whatever the case, he lifted up his forearm and rested it horizontally against the top of the shower. Then he leaned into it, resting the heavy red mesh of the helm carefully against the glass door. He watched her quietly.

The soft and indirect intimacy implied in this gesture made a lump form in Heather's throat. What little was left of Alex, for however briefly it would remain, was in this creature. She supposed that, given what had happened to her, there was no real shame in taking comfort from this. Silent Hill survivors were a little unique in that way; they were some of the only people in the world who had received reassurances from their loved ones postmortem. Heather just had the added complication of Xuchibara...

Then again, these 'remains' had been shed from Alex Shepherd long before Heather Mason had ever met him. So perhaps she was just being sentimental, seeing things where there was nothing to be seen.

"I'm hurrying," she mumbled, looking away and scrubbing at herself. "I'm hurrying." Then she remembered she'd promised to talk to him, but she wasn't sure what to say. She decided to hum. Quietly. Lest her friends conclude that she'd gone batshit crazy. (Did they already think that? Maybe. She'd just taken a giant Silent Hill monster by the hand, led it into a bathroom with herself, stripped naked, and taken a shower)

Heather tried not to look at him, bottling down on her emotions again because if she fell apart in the shower and bawled her eyes out, Travis would probably come charging in. And she was naked.

The Pyramid Monster 'watched her'. He listening to the sound of her voice as it echoed through his helmet. He felt the heat of the shower and the fluctuations of her pulse where his fingertips were pressed into the glass. He was so much taller than her that it was easy for her to avoid his gaze. Her heartbeat suggested distress; her avoidance: Pain. His used his tongue then, brushing vents where steam was escaping the glass shower; this way, he could smell her better. The fingers of his free hand crept up the glass, inspecting the vents, and then dripped back down.

Something... familiar... was in the texture of that glass.

A long moment passed in remembrance, in thought, as he felt her fragile heartbeat through the heat of the glass, and lapped up her sadness through the steam from the vents. Then his bloodstained fingers twitched, budged a little, and he observed (in his own way) that the condensation on the exterior of the shower providing just enough liquid for an interesting task: Slowly, his index finger moved, tracing a shape over the glass.

* * *

Henry passed Heather some clean clothing through the door as she covered herself up with a towel. When she'd dressed, he passed through some cleaning supplies including actual steel wool and she broke out laughing at the sight of it. Hopping over to where she'd let the bathtub fill up with fresh water, she grabbed her Pyramid Monster's arm and tried to coax him to sit on the edge of the porcelain tub. It took quite a lot of coaxing. Her Pyramid Monster was not incredibly graceful at _crouching._

Armed with the knowledge that they weren't about to stumble in on a naked Heather, Travis and Henry eased the door open. They found Heather seated on the toilet and the monster perched on the edge of the tub. She'd taken one of his much larger hands into her own, and was patiently scrubbing away at the red grime. Travis eyed the scene. Remembering Heather's fearlessness in the face of giant spiders, and also remembering what Henry had said about Valtiel, Travis could sort of fathom how this all could seem... rational... to Heather. Still, the look he gave Henry was basically a non-verbal encapsulation of: "Do you get this? Does this make sense to you?"

Henry hesitated and decided he'd find out more. "What are you doing?" he Heather, in a soft and neutral voice with no form of judgement.

Heather glanced their way and then shrugged. "Cleaning him up," she said, as if it were relatively normal. "He keeps touching me, and he's filthy, so..." She shrugged again.

"Laura did the same thing to Walter," he noted in amusement.

Heather stiffened and made a face at him. "Er... We're talking about the flamboyant, blonde, pop-music-loving, half-biker-chick, who wears frilly lingerie, was a cheerleader, did lightweight wrestling, and gets in fist fights at bars, right?"

"The very same."

Heather recalled the story of Cynthia's demise and pulled another face. "I guess I don't get to have an opinion on that. I'd say that sounds insane, but then I'm sitting here scrubbing blood off this one's hands as if he wasn't born this way. Walter's homicidal but at least he's still mostly human, and he has been trying to help me out since I first found him. And from what I can tell he's been behaving decently towards you all, too."

Henry looked at the monster's hands. "Will it come off? The blood."

"Probably," Heather confirmed. "It came off Valtiel."

"You bathed Valtiel?"

"He was climbing down into my _bed!_" Heather exclaimed. "The first time I washed my blankets, the water was coming out copper colored! Of _course_ I bathed him. Washed off all the shit and grime and ugliness of this hellhole." As she said the last her voice lowered grumpily, and she scraped furiously at some stubborn grime. "Laundered his clothing and washed the boots, too. Valtiel in a puffy white bath robe shall ever remain one of my most cherished memories. Had to make him new gloves because his old ones were so filthy."

Henry wondered if the grime would stay off in Silent Hill, or if these efforts were for naught. Then he realized the cleaning might be a psychological or even slightly spiritual thing for Heather. She couldn't help Alex, after all, and god only knew what horrible condition she'd seen him in before the end.

Henry also reflected that this 'cleaning' was, in the abstract, remarkably like a baptism. But he tucked that thought away because it did not seem congruent with everything else.

Ultimately, he decided not to try and dissuade her from further executioner monster scrubbing, mostly because the executioner monster in question was being absolutely fascinating and holding very still for her.

"You, "Henry licked his lips, "never explained how you lost Valtiel."

Heather grimaced and kept working. "Edwin's got a demon of his own—or angel, or whatever—whom he calls Xipe. She kicked the shit out of Valtiel when he tried to help me, and then _ripped him_ out of my arms. Walter says she can rewrite the 'truth,' and calls her God's Scribe. He says she unmade my handiwork, so that basically my version of Valtiel doesn't exist anymore."

Travis tilted his head to the side, glancing occasionally at the monster. "What does that mean?"

Heather paused, her hands tightening. She stared down at the bloodied palm in front of her, noting that some pale skin-colored pigment was starting to show through. "Well, basically, there are several cult demigods," she started. "They can be summoned by a conjurer, but they're made incarnate according to Silent Hill's rules. That means what we see is distorted into a monster, and it's affected by our psychology, and by Alessa's leftover influence. That's the simple version. The complex version is that Silent Hill just doesn't make any fucking sense at all and so those 'rules' stretch and warp all over the place." She started to scrub again.

"Not seein' the connection..." Travis prompted.

"Valtiel's allegedly an incarnation of Lobsel-Vith, the Metatron, the Right Hand of God. My version of him was tinted through the lens of losing my father, needing a guide and protector, whatever Alessa felt about executioner gods, and _years_ of low cult activity. So the way Walter explains it, Valtiel was so warped from what was originally intended that he was basically a carnival mirror reflecting me. And, so, when Xipe got hold of him, she wiped all those extra layers away and, poof, he's now back to being a semi-accurate avatar of the Metatron. So the thing I cared about? Never really existed."

Travis frowned. Hadn't Walter mentioned Heather was still bound by her desire to 'rescue' Valtiel? He'd also mentioned a 'red wrath,' and it was pretty clear to see who _that_ was. "I'm waiting for the 'but,'" Travis told her.

Heather took a slow breath. "I've seen Valtiel since. Samael took me to find him. He still has the red gloves I made for him. I tried so hard to get him to notice me, to look at me, to acknowledge me. He didn't budge, even when I pointed out the gloves, and..." She let out that slow breath. "Look I know this sounds crazy but Valtiel lived with me for months and I had never mentally healed as fast as I did with him looking after me. I really, seriously, genuinely loved that freaky ass monster. Like more than you'd love your dog; more like you'd love your best friend or your family.

"Even with a face only a mother could love, and a penchant for climbing on ceilings like a friggen Japanese ghost. ...Well, when I said so aloud down in that hell, he suddenly stopped what he was doing and listened to me. I don't know if that means anything, but... But it meant something to me."

Travis grimaced and glanced at the Pyramid Headed monster, thinking how insane this sounded. There was truth in the idea that Alessa's psychic abilities would give her instincts he lacked, especially when it came to handling monsters and gods. And Travis had never exactly showered with his own person demon, so Heather presently had more power over Silent Hill than Travis did. Still, the risk in getting this long was a risk of losing her forever. Couldn't she see this sounded crazy?

But then the Red Monster was sitting _right there_, within arm's reach. He was balanced on the edge of a bath tub, his demeanor docile and his left arm resting upon on a towel in Heather Mason's lap as if he too felt this was all the most natural thing in the world. The surreal sight of it gave Travis a sense that there was a whole realm of possibility in SIlent HIll which _no one_ had previously entertained. This thing, this monster... Heather had said it was basically autonomous; and that meant it was _voluntarily_ choosing to be there with her.

"Heather, did you see Valtiel in the elementary school?" Henry asked.

She glanced at Henry and looked back to her work. "Yeah. The monster there, the Insanity Butcher, nearly killed me. Then a cougar roar came out of nowhere and my katana dropped down from the ventilation shafts and landed straight in front of me. That was definitely Valtiel. But since Xipe's the one who nabbed him, and Valtiel's kept me alive for cult purposes before, I don't really know what to think. Usually he would have just _revived_ me if I died, not tossed me a weapon from the sidelines."

Travis fidgeted.

Henry nodded. "We were hoping," he said slowly.

Heather glanced at them. "What?"

"We took some of your drawings," Henry explained, "and Travis sent them through a mirror near the elementary school."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Your drawings of Valtiel. I stole some from you when you were in Canada, and we pushed them into the Otherworld like mementos." Henry hesitated. "By conventional nonsense," he said, quoting Heather, "it seemed like it might actually work. If there was any chance at all."

It was when tears welled up in Heather's eyes that Travis realized just how deep shit they were in, and that no one in a million years was going to convince Heather to let go. By one explanation or another, this fixation on 'Valtiel' had anchored itself so firmly in her psyche that they had little to no chance of uprooting it themselves. "Oh," she said quietly, because she didn't know what to say. "_Thank you_." She looked away quickly and rubbed her eyes.

"You're remembering Maria in all this decision-making, aren't you?" Travis managed.

Heather glanced up at them again, and nodded. Then she looked up at her monster, who was watching and listening quietly. "Samael. Are you a psychological delusion, or are you real?"

The monster shifted slightly. He grumbled.

"So, you think you're real. Then aren't you Xuchibara?"

The violent reaction from the monster was so sudden that it had both Henry and Travis jumping forward to help her. The Red Pyramid lunged at Heather, hissing violently and grabbing aggressively towards her throat. His hand came up short however, clenching in the air in front of her.

"Well... are you human?" Heather asked delicately.

HISS!

"Are you yourself, then?"

He seemed perplexed momentarily by the question. Then he grumbled, and settled his butt back down on the bath, watching her suspiciously.

"Holy shit Heather," Travis breathed, gun raised. "That was one way to try and make a point."

Heather laughed. Her monster growled at her. "I-I'm sorry!" she pleaded, touching his arm gently. "I'm sorry! I should know better than to tease you, but the 'expression' you're giving me is adorably terrifying. Please don't hurt me. Or anyone else. Or the bathroom." The monster growled low, his hands clenching and clenching

"Heath-"

He suddenly looked at the two men and his muscles tensed for another lunge. Heather cursed and grabbed onto his shoulder as he tried to stand.

"S- Alex!"

Beneath her fingers, corded muscles froze. The monster remained poised to leap upon both men, a low growl still rippling through his throat and echoing across his helm. Heather clung to him and reached up to gently touch the red mesh of the helm. She pet over it. She'd been giddy for a moment and had forgotten just how dangerous her unusual companion could be.

"Guys," she instructed, "get out for a bit and let him calm down. I'll be fine." She felt a ripple of tension under her fingers. "_Alex! _It's okay. I'm sorry for vexing you. Easy..."

Heather felt the monster 'look' at her. Tension hung in the air for another moment. His tongue slipped out of his helm and reached up for her, but instead of wringing her neck it twined almost whimsically through her hair, and curled about the nape of her neck. Tension eased out of him, and out of the entire situation. He rumbled softly, braced a hand against the back of the toilet for balance, and settled back into a seat upon the tub.

Travis wanted to say something, but couldn't come up with words. Henry, wisely, tugged him out of the bathroom and shut the door behind them.

* * *

Samael calmed down entirely after the two men had left. Within minutes she was able to go back to scrubbing his arms. She really did use the steel wool. 

Now and then he glanced at the door or floor (she presumed he was glaring across the Lighthouse at people she couldn't see), but for the most part he was docile. She scrubbed and then submerged the limbs, scrubbed and submerged. Layer by layer, grime and filth peeled away, leaving rings of crusted blood up around his elbows and wrists.

"Wonder if bloodstained hands is symbolic," Heather queried, pulling out another scrub brush from under the sink to use now that the coarsest material had been scraped off. Her monster had become quiet again, simply watching her work, his tongue remained looped in her hair. Whatever she was doing, it didn't seem to concern him. "Guess soldiers often have to take life. Never did ask him about that."

She was pleased to see the filth recede, layer by later, clot by clot. When she'd gotten most of the grime off his hands, she stood up and then pestered him to try and get his feet in the tub. It wasn't particularly difficult. A few coaxes and shoves and the monster was quite content to step in and then stand up for her. He only twitched mildly when she turned the shower head on and started to hose him down. The shower head was by no means tall enough, so she detached it and tried to lift it higher. She wasn't tall enough to do so properly, even while standing on the toilet seat or bath tub rim, and her balance was sort of shot from the day's activities anyway. Hmm.

She supposed she could have had him sit down, but this was sort of funny.

After a moment of thought, Heather grabbed one of his hands, put the detachable shower head in his palm, closed his fingers about it, and then manuvered his elbow so he was holding it up and the water was pouring down not just over his shoulders but over his helmet. "Perfect! Just hold it like that," she complemented and then leaned over to pick up her scrub brushes.

Aside from his hands, his helmet was probably the filthiest part of him. There was unspeakably disgusting gunk caked in every tiny hole, gear, bolt, edge, and grate of the helmet. She scrubbed patiently with the steal wool, sloughing out god only knew what into the bathtub.

A few minutes later, she had to dredge all the crap out and throw it in the bathroom toilet. Then she remounted the toilet seat and stood tall to reach around to the back of his helm.

About thirty minutes in and it became clear that, first of all, the helmet wasn't just red from blood; it really was red-colored. Second of all, she was never going to get it perfectly clean, and she had to accept that. She was too tired and this was simply too big a job to be a perfectionist. One thing she _did_ want to do was clean around all the bolts, and around where the helmet rested on his shoulders and chafed his throat. She did these things carefully, flaking grime, flesh, and fungus away from age-old welts, and grinding away layers of immobile rust.

"Did that hurt?" she asked when she realized she'd drawn some blood around his neck. Her monster seemed largely indifferent, but his tongue writhed deeper into her hair to reassure her.

When she eventually convinced herself to give up on the enormous helmet, scrubbing the rest of him was a little easier. He was still the size of a horse, and his biceps were as thick as her thighs, but a good hand-sized scrub brush and a luffa ended up being all she needed to get him clean. She'd brushed down a horse before, actually. It was definitely a lot of work, but not so much that the task was insurmountable.

At first, working from his side, she was able to ignore the patterns his scars made under all the grime. Bits of healed flesh and gore still clung around them, and they were stubborn, and removing them took time. Her angle, and the curves of his arms, clavicles, and neck, all helped to hide the overall picture they made.

But when she stepped down, coaxed him into a turn, and lifted up her scrub brush (he protested slightly; he couldn't keep his tongue near her in that position), a pattern became clear to her:

Some of the scars she recalled from the first time her monster had been injured rescuing her from the church; others were large enough that she could identify them as Xipe's handiwork; and the second set of wounds ran perpendicular to the first, in a lattice.

That was uniquely disturbing because the scars now closely resembled the real Alex Shepherd's death wounds.

Which probably wasn't a coincidence, and was instead something Silent Hill had done to her on purpose. Standing beside him, with all the obscuring blood washed away, and looking at the muscles of his lower back and shoulders, any fool could see the scars were etched in a checkered crisscross.

Dismayed, Heather ran her fingertips over the white marks. Her monster tried to turn his head to look over his shoulder at her, but the low tip of the helmet made this almost impossible. He grumbled almost sympathetically when she leaned into his back.

"I'm okay," she muttered weakly. "Just give me a moment." Her fingers followed the lines of the scars, zigzagging over the taut pale flesh. Even here, along his back, the Pyramid Monster's musculature was ridiculous exaggerated; each muscle's distinctive curl could be seen hugging around the spinal cord. A smirk played on her lips as she traced over them. He would have made a phenomenal study for life drawing. Why had she never commandeered Valtiel for that? Probably because his smock covered more skin, and she hadn't thought to disrobe him.

Her nails found and scraped away a little grime and then came to rest on an unexpected, ovoid patch of brown. Heather perked up. At first, she didn't believe what she was seeing. Her memories rolled back to Canada. She looked up at her Pyramid Monster, who was still vainly trying to lift his helmet tip up high enough to 'see' over his shoulder.

"You've the same birthmark," she told him, feeling very strange.

He grunted.

For a moment, Heather didn't move. Then she grabbed up her wash cloth and started frantically scraping away grime. She touched the skin around his back, his chest, his arms, counting moles. A curse escaped her and she stepped barefoot into the tub and knelt down in the filthy water, despite her fresh clean clothes. She fished for the hem of his skirt and pulled it up, tracing her fingers up from calloused, scarred feet to the back of his left calf.

There she found another birthmark, much thicker and more distinctive. She brushed grime away to see it clearly, then sank back onto her rear in the water and closed her eyes.

_Why did that surprise me? _

_Why does it hurt?_

Her monster slowly, hesitantly turned around in the narrow tub to look at her, still holding up the shower head and letting it drench him.

_Because despite the human frame he doesn't look human at all. And..._

Opening her eyes and drawing his posture in, Heather could imagine a hetero-chromatic eye watching her, and her heart clenched painfully. But when he crouched down (carefully, slipping a little) and offered her a hand up, she took it. He pulled her back to her feet.

_You are not him._

_I should clean out the interior of your helm._

Heather took in a deep breath and steadied herself. Fine. If this was going to hurt, she'd just take it. She wanted him clean, now more than ever. Lifting the brush back up, she returned to work, scrubbing carefully over each inch of flesh with painstaking attention to the level of grime. Now and then she had him pass her the shower head and she splashed water all over him to hose him down and get a better look at key areas.

When she'd rounded him twice and finished the upper body at his lower back, she didn't think twice about removing the skirt despite everything that had concerned Travis and Henry; and despite the incident with he Black Pyramid. As she'd mentioned earlier, nakedness had never really been a necessary precursor for a perverse executioner assault.

So, she reached up to his hips and struggled with the thick rusted belts for a bit. There were three. Unlike Valtiel, Samael didn't seem to react strongly to them being removed. The garment sagged a bit after the first two were unclasped, and then collapsed heavily once the third was released. _Oof!_ Leather was really heavy. The weight of the garment dropped Heather to her knee in surprise.

_Heh. Woops._

She wondered how she was going to get it clean; she probably could have laundered it, but there was absolutely no way spare clothes were going to fit the Pyramid Monster. Then again, one supposed a nude doll walking around wouldn't really offend anyone, so-

The Pyramid Monster was trying to turn towards her again. Heather's smirk dropped from her face, replaced by horrified awe.

Anatomically.

Correct.

He was _anatomically correct_.

Oh sweet Jesus.

Heather was going to go blind or die on the spot. Face heated, she dropped her cleaning supplies and slapped both hands over her eyes. "T-t-turn away! Fuck! Turn away!" she pleaded with him, red blushing up fast into her cheeks.

Confused, but willing to obey the frantic command, the monster stopped trying to face her. Heather floundered for the opposite side of the bathtub and stood blindly.

That hadn't beenfair. She hadn't been adequately prepared for that. Nearly three feet and hundreds of additional pounds had a way of scaling up all aspects of the anatomy, so in some ways the exact proportions of this encounter were to have been expected, but-! No, _no_, that was completely, unspeakably, unfair; because she'd dealt with Pyramid Monsters before, and they did not have-!

_He had the same birthmarks. It's the same body, just exaggerated._

_Fuck no, that was absolutely and horribly uncalled for and unfair! That's cheating! The others didn't have anything! Valtiel didn't have anything! They're dolls, not-!_

_That was the most amazingly, morbidly, beautiful sight I have ever seen._

_JESUS CHRIST HEATHER. YOUR BOYFRIEND JUST DIED- WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?_

_What? Did you not see his hips? The line of the iliac muscle? Much less the extraordinarily gorgeous-_

_STOP STOP STOP._

Heather slowly uncovered her face as she realized hiding in her hands was not going to resolve this situation. Her cheeks felt chili pepper hot. The angle her monster was standing at just _barely _hid everything important from view. Heather nervously reached out to him, clasped her monster's (beautiful) hips and maneuvered him until he stepped into an, um, less 'dangerous' position. His skin seemed extraordinarily hot where she touched him. Frag, she was embarassed.

Heather grimaced and then reached about for a bathroom towel. She took the Pyramid Monster's other hand, pushed the hem of the towel between his fingers, and then controlled his elbow till he had gotten the cloth over himself to mask his indecency. "J-just keep that there," she stammered, and then stood back and avoided touching him for a moment or two to try and compose himself. Of course, baking away from him made him want to turn towards her. She cried out in exasperation and grabbed him again to stop him.

_Nice ass._

"I hate Silent Hill," Heather sighed miserably. "Just hold still. Hold still..."

Far too much psychological damage had been done to give up now. Heather picked up her tools again and set to work.

If she was being perfectly and shameless honest, there was a certain pleasure in using a luffa to scrub a butt this fine, and he had a line of grime around his hips, the small of his back, and the curves of his abdominal wall that would have caused any sane woman to feel either defiled or slightly aflutter. It occurred to her after a bit that his skin was utterly hairless.

_Like a marble statue._

_Oh, shut up, Heather. This is an awful way to end an awful day._

_No, Heather, it's not. This doesn't even make it on the top ten list. _

As it turned out, his calves and feet were the filthiest portions of him; the soles of his feet were battered and scarred and soaked in red. The upper extremes of his legs and hips were not especially dirty, owed mostly to the protection of the skirt. Small favors. As she worked she was able to forget the majority of her embarrassment, especially because his feet were just so torn up that they required a lot of care, just like his hands had.

Eventually, when he was clean, Heather decided she'd simply have to re-clothe him in the dirty smock; there was no way she was going to subject any other human being to what she'd been forced to endure. She hunkered down and heaved the heavy garment up around his legs. Eventually she had to get him to hang up the shower head and help her because it was much too heavy for her to manipulate on her own. She felt awkward right up until she had clasped all three belts closed and then she staggered backwards with a sigh of relief.

As he turned about and faced her, tongue licking the air curiously, she hoped her traumatized excitement went ignored.

"I'm going crazy," she laughed, looking up quietly at her ridiculously proportioned monster. "And I'm horny." She couldn't stop laughing, stumbling into the back of the shower and bumping her head slightly. She covered her face with a hand. "And my boyfriend is dead." Tears had started coming down her face. "And I got him killed."

She heard the water swish and the world rumble as her monster moved.

_Please. Don't. Don't don't don't don't don't..._

But all that happened was a tongue came down and gently licked the tears from her face. Heather hiccupped and then crumbled to a seat on the rim of the tub. Leaning a hand against the side of the shower, the Pyramid Monster followed, and the tongue returned to her face. She made herself small.

A few minutes passed this way, but nothing more happened. Nothing awkward, nothing horrible, nothing sexual, nothing traumatizing. She peered red-eyed up at her concerned monster.

He rumbled out a hesitant purr-sound for her.

_Won't hurt. Won't hurt._

Heather stared, feeling low, humming reassurances against her mind. She reached hesitantly up, touching the dry tongue and shivering.

The helmet... That _face._ She didn't want to see his face again... didn't want to... Not after... Not...

_Won't hurt. Won't hurt._

"What are you...?" she whispered, not for the first time.

The reassurances trailed softly off to silence, and no answer was forthcoming. Heather stared up at her monster for a long time, loosely holding the tongue and letting the tip flick in gentle caresses along her cheek.

Suddenly, before she could remember why this was a bad idea, she was standing up on the rim of the bath tub again, feeling for the bolts along the underside of the helmet. Her monster froze, a spike of surprise, discomfort, and excitement rushing through it.

* * *

Back on the ground floor of the Lighthouse, Travis and Henry found a nervous, confused looking James waiting, with a concerned Laura and an equally concerned Eileen. The survivors looked at one another, trying to figure out what it was they all thought about all this and why.

"You were right," Laura noted slowly. "You were both right. About why Dad was sick." She gestured towards the staircase. "She called him 'Alex.'"

Travis looked at Henry, hoping for some insight or interpretation.

"I think," The quiet man offered, "it's more relevant that he _responded_ to the name, than that she _called_ him by it."

"It's my fault," James murmured. "If we hadn't reached out to her-"

"-she'd be dead," Eileen finished for him. "You heard her say that it rescued her. Walter implied it earlier, too."

James shuddered, inwardly turning over ancient words he'd once read in a red-covered book.

"We can bombard her with questions later," Eileen offered, "and not while she's exhausted, hungry, filthy and being half crazy. Travis... can you keep an eye on the bathroom in case something happens?"

The man nodded. Understand Heather? Impossible. Be there in case all hell broke loose? Definitely in his repertoire.

"I'll stay too," James said.

"Dad," Laura disagreed. "You're a wreck. You need to eat or sleep or... _something_. Read a happy book about rainbows and puppies maybe."

James seemed to straighten up a little at that, and gave his daughter a critical look. "What was that Henry said about Walter?" the father asked pointedly.

Laura jumped. "Er... I just thought..."

"Yes, Laura?" His voice was patient.

The girl blinked once, twice, and then spun on heel and fled the scene.

Eileen blinked. "I have to learn how to do that with our kids," she observed. Then she looked at James. "You're going to be okay? I still have no idea what's going on. I mean Travis getting floored by Heather's Butcher fight I get. But Walter? You? That still makes no sense. We're worried about you, you know."

The blonde man (well, now mostly gray) took in a slow breath. "I'll be fine," James said firmly. "I'm the only one here who's specifically dealt with a Boogieman in that shape before. And if I'm right it has the same strengths and weaknesses. So if anyone should be looking out for Heather at the moment, it should be me."

"What sorts of strengths and weaknesses?" Eileen asked incredulously.

James eyed her. "It's immortal. It can't die. I was shooting it in the head to disorient it but... I lost my composure. It won't happen again."

"Let him come with me," Travis suggested. "It'll be okay, I'll keep an eye on him. Just... Henry, Eileen: Try to keep the others calm."

Henry nodded and led Eileen off by the arm.

* * *

It was over an hour later when Heather suddenly burst through the bathroom door and blinked upon finding both men talking quietly just outside it.

"Do either of you have a wrench?" she demanded.

Travis in fact did have a wrench, and was detaching the replacement melee weapon from his belt before he'd realized what he was doing. Heather's eyes widened greedily and she snatched it out of his hand.

"Thanks!" she called and then bolted straight back into the bathroom.

"What the- Kid-?"

She left the door wide open and they could see even from afar that the Pyramid Monster was trying to climb out of the bath tub to pursue her. Heather jogged back up to it, somehow convinced it to stay in the tub, and then quickly stood up on top of the toilet and reached up towards its helmet.

James stiffened. "She's going to unbolt the helm," he gasped, and then darted up to the bathroom door to watch. Travis grimaced and followed, then reached in and picked up his fireman's axe from where Heather had leaned it just inside the door. It was still dirty, but habit had convinced him never to go a moment unarmed in Silent Hill.

Heather plopped the shower head back in its holder and then struggled to get herself at a good angle to unbolt the removable plate from. Now that he was clean of excess broken flesh, it was easier to see where the plate and bolts were, but the toilet was too high and the ground was too low. Her monster shifted about almost nervously, fingers pawing uncertainly at the air. He knew what she was trying to do, she was sure, and he didn't know whether to protest or help.

"You need to lift your head up a bit," she told him, then grumbled when he lowered it instead. "Hey. _Hey_. I'm not going to hurt you. It's okay. We'll put it back when we're done. We're just going to finish cleaning you up, okay?"

He fussed and struggled, clawing at the sides of the shower and pawing at her clothing.

"Trust me. Hey. _Alex_. Trust me. I'm not going to hurt you. No one else is either."

His fingers curled into a fist around the hem of her blouse. He twitched. Then he lifted his helmet a bit.

"There you go... There you go..." she pushed gently up on the helmet. "A little more."

He slowly lifted up the helm a little further, and then a little more. Still clutching convulsively at her waist, the monster fidgeted nervously.

"There," Heather breathed, and slotted the wrench into position. "Mmph, what I wouldn't give for some WD-40." She made sure the wrench was in place and then pushed the full force of her weight into it. There was a painful squeal and then a small snap as the bolt twisted loose and then came off and dropped into her palm. The Pyramid Monster raked the fingers of one hand against the tiles and grabbed at her flesh and clothing with the others. Heather set the first bolt aside, making for the second one.

James watched in fascination.

Travis was, to be fair, weirded out.

Heather got all four bolts free. Her monster was breathing raggedly and shaking slightly when she settled down the last bolt and the wrench, and then reached up to pry at the bottom plate. She wiggled it and slid it about and then finally pulled it away with a taut snap. She set the plate away and picked up the shower head. "Don't breathe in for a moment," she advised, and then turned the shower head upside down and sprayed the water up into the helm. Red slime, rust, dirt, thick fibrous materials and clotted blood dripped free of the interior of the helm. The Pyramid Monster shuddered violently, hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

Heather hosed him down of dripping grime and turned the water back upward into the helm a few times.

"Okay," she said at last. "Try to push it up higher to lean on the wall."

He twitched and jerked for a few seconds. His elbows bent, and he got one hand on the side of his helm. His fingers crept towards the tip, but trembled violently.

"It's okay. I promise you, it's okay," she murmured reassuringly, touching the helmet and his shoulder gently. "Come on. Just a little bit. I know you can lift it."

It took minutes of coaxing him, but at last he finally reached up and grasped the underneath of the helm. He started to push. Heather got her fingers along the sides of his throat, easing fiber and tubes out of the way so they wouldn't get stuck or snag. The helmet swung up a few degrees; the tip cracked through the tiles it had been resting against.

Heather smiled, stepping onto the edge of the bath and ducking slightly under the raised tip of the helmet. PArt of the head had been exposed. This time she didn't spray water at him, but gathered some of it into her cupped fingers and lifted it up along the tubes and what she knew to be his jawline. "There," she purred reassuringly, cleaning away years of rust and rot. "Nice and warm, mm?"

James pressed closer, looking at the bloated pustules and draping tubes curiously.

Travis grimaced. _Gross as hell._

The Pyramid Monster shivered at the sound of her voice. His hand tightened on the edge of the helmet. For a moment he was indecisive. Then with a shove, he levered the helmet tip up even farther, leaning the bulk of the weight back onto his shoulders or against the shower wall. Heather braced herself emotionally. He took in a few desperate breaths and then slowly, carefully, turned his face about to look at her.

Heather was amazed when the bottom of her stomach didn't fall away on her. She stared right at the monster's inquisitive brown-gray eye, and took strange comfort in the way it rapidly darted to her face.

"Hey," she murmured, lifting up another handful of water to gently slosh over his bloodstained cheek. The eye half-closed reflexively, then blinked rapidly open again. "Told you it'd be worth it," she said with a smile, gently brushing away dirt. "Hold on, I'm going to aim the shower head up into the space above your head. Try not to drop the helmet on me, or we'll be expecting another visit from Valtiel..."

He gazed at her almost wondrously and succeeded in holding the helm aloft even when the water gushing up into the helmet sent a violent shudder along his spine and temporarily made his eye roll up.

All embarrassment, trauma, and crazy thoughts forgotten, Heather found a momentary peace in the vulnerable bliss she read on her traveling companion's face. She forgot about Scribes, Butchers, Executioners, and Crimson Gods; trusting entirely in the trust he was showing her.

With the world at last explained to him, James Sunderland stood up straight and nodded. This revelation was enough for him. He was... he was satisfied. Reassured. Calmed. Whatever had happened to him over the last few days, it had somehow leveraged this thing's meager humanity to protect Heather. And, likewise, the monsters who had stalked James through his own personal hell might have looked very much like this: Like shards of James' own subconscious, trying to _punish _him, or at least trying to make him face the reality of what he'd done in Mary's final hours. 


	51. Elle

Laura was still missing when Heather finally righted Samael's helmet, got down off the toilet, and realized she'd soiled all her fresh clothing. She couldn't walk around in wet clothes in the middle of the winter; her rental parents would never let her. So she turned a shy expression towards them, and James (who was a better and more dad-ly dad than Eileen sometimes gave him credit for) immediately turned to get her a third set of clothing.

Travis wasn't sure she _should_ change just yet. He'd noticed she was walking stiffly, with a noticeable limp and an apparent weakness in one arm. There was some pink pigment creeping across the back of her shirt that looked like a half-sealed wound might be bleeding through. As she left the bathroom, the Boogeyman growled, but it/he appeared to be having a bit of a time negotiating the low door frames and slippery bathroom floor, and it might be a minute before it managed to finally exit. 

"You're bleeding," The trucker told her. Heather twisted and tried to look behind herself. At first he thought she might try to hand-wave and bluster her way out of getting tended to. Instead she gave a sleepy nod and turned her back to him so he could see it for himself. There was a nasty gash between her shoulder blades. He imagined she was still in a partial state of shock, or she'd definitely have been feeling it in the shower.

"Hold still," Travis told her, and grabbed a first aid kit that had been mounted on the wall near the bathroom door. He glanced back at where the Pyramid Monster was clambering out of the bathroom, while he unscrewed the peroxide with his teeth and loaded it on some cotton.

James returned with fresh clothing almost the same moment the Pyramid Monster managed its way out of the bathroom. It turned to 'stare' at him, tongue licking the air. James shied back a pace, trying to keep a respectful distance. 

Travis carefully dabbed the cotton over Heather's laceration and pulled out a length of bandage. He glanced backwards when he heard the Pyramid Monster hiss, only to realize it was approaching _him, _now.

"Hey!" Heather called out in a cautionary tone.

Travis backed off to the side and lifted his hands in an effort to convey he was unarmed and intended no hostility. "No cleaver," he said. 

Heather rubbed her face and thought about that. "Huh," she drawled slowly. She looked up at Samael. "Hey, Travis is a friend. He's just bandaging me up. I don't think your hands are nimble enough to help with that."

The Pyramid Monster slowed and grumbled. It _did _reach towards her injury, but then retracted his fingers. He 'glanced' suspiciously in Travis's direction, and tasted the air for a few seconds. He didn't quite seem to be giving the 'go-ahead.'

Heather glanced at Travis. "What clued you in?"

"At first I thought he could smell our personal problems on us and was judging us for them," Travis hazarded. "But since we'd already dealt with those it didn't seem likely. Then I thought: Maybe we aren't 'Silent Hill Survivors' to him. Maybe we smell like other executioners. Maybe we're almost like _rivals_. And maybe that's why he went after James on first seeing him."

Travis wasn't big on gesticulating, but when he did make a small gesture in Heather's direction, the Pyramid Monster hissed at him and edged further between him and Heather.

Travis backed up another step. "Easy big guy," he muttered in a low voice. "Ain't gonna hurt her."

"He _isn't_," Heather agreed. "And I kinda need the helping hand."

The helmeted monster grumbled and creaked for another moment. Eventually, he did seem to notice Heather was still bleeding. The sight, or taste, or whatever caused him to back off one step, and then another. It almost felt like he was processing their words belatedly or even in slow-motion, because, out of the blue, he fixed Travis Grady with an expectant stare.

To say the trucker was hesitant about stepping forward as an understatement. He edged slowly around the monster and when it didn't lash out at him he carefully approached Heather and went back to dabbing at the wound in her back. She maintained a steady a poker face and didn't wince or cry out. 

Travis helped bandage up Heather's back and then her leg, and then he took a look at the bruises around an arm she'd clearly dislocated and then somehow managed to set back into the socket all on her lonesome. The arm was the worst: Heather had thoroughly abused it, and only pure adrenaline could explain how she'd managed to put any strength behind a melee weapon at all. Shit, a professional boxer in her condition would have had difficulties punching and ought to have quickly made an appointment with their physical therapist. 

"You're going to have to let Laura have a look at this arm," Travis noted. "And rest a day. Or you aren't going to be able to lift squat."

"Yes, mother." Heather yawned.

Travis spun her about and looked at her hard. "I nearly watched you die today, Kid."

Heather was surprised a moment, but then laughed incredulously. "I killed you today with a cleaver," she retorted.

"Kid..."

She shrugged him off with a smirk and went to move past him back to the door.

"_Kid..."_

"I'll be fine, Travis, I'm not stupid," she said, intending to go downstairs, hug everyone, and grab a bite to eat before bed.

"_Heather_!" Travis said louder.

She blinked and turned back to look at him. Travis Grady's expression was usually blank and impassive; but etched in the old man's features she now saw a deep, repressed concern peeking through.

"After what you went through, to tell me you're 'fine' is to lie to my face," he said. "If you can't talk to me, then pick someone else: Kaufmann, Henry, James, anyone. But you can't hold all that inside. No one can."

"Travis, look-"

"Heather, what do you honestly think is going to happen when you tell us about how monsters are following you around? Do you think we're going to freak out? Shun you? Tell you you're crazy and you need a shrink? You're your own Silent Hill expert, Kid. But you just had the emotional stuffing kicked out of you six different ways, and this town eats unhappy people like they're breakfast cereal. You need to unload on us. You've got a better opportunity to do so _right now_ than anyone else has ever had."

She frowned.

"Heather," he tried again. "Please. If you can't handle the psychobabble, then skip Kaufmann; talk to Henry, at least. You know if you ask him to he'll just sit there and listen, won't even say a word."

The Mason girl, covered in scratches and bruises, looked at Travis quietly for a long moment. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded solemnly. "Okay. I promise I will." She paused. "Travis, have you ever killed anyone?"

He blinked and straightened up, eyes widening. "What?"

"Silent Hill. It seemed to think you had. Or at least that you'd been capable of it."

Travis looked at her for a moment, then off to the side. He rubbed his neck and then looked back at her eyes. "I don't remember," he told her honestly. "But I hope not."

Heather nodded, accepting that. It was no stranger than Alex Shepherd's confusion over whether he'd spent years in a mental institution or on deployment in the armed forces. "If you had," she told Travis, "it wouldn't matter. This little family's been through way too much to blame each other for the people we used to be." She thought for a moment. "You want to introduce me to the new guy?"

"Yeah. Okay." Travis seemed to recompose himself and joined her halfway down the stairs, with a ginger glance back towards the Pyramid Monster to make sure the thing was willing to tolerate him. Samael—Travis too found it easier to think of him by that name than 'Alex'—seemed to have grown indifferent towards the trucker's presence.

Perhaps tending to Heather had absolved him of his old ties to the Butcher.

* * *

James had actually started down the staircase ahead of them, and when he reached the ground floor first, the rest of the party came to attention and slowly migrated to the main atrium. Heather trudged sleepily down behind him, followed by Travis.

"Hey," Heather chirped, looking around at all the faces, old and new. "So what exactly happened, how are you all here?"

"Sherlock over here says the cult pulled us in," Douglas answered, jerking his thumb at Henry. Then he—and many others—looked towards the ceiling as they heard heavy footfalls of a giant monster in pursuit. "Thing's still here, huh?"

Heather wondered if Douglass had expected the Pyramid Monster to vanish into thin air; belatedly, she realized that doing so would have been fairly normal for Silent Hill.

"We have to be careful," James explained for her, and he sounded surprisingly sure of himself and very calm. "Keep a wide berth around him. He may be able to detect surface thoughts. Where's Walter?"

Laura shuffled, but no one else seemed inclined to answer, which put her on the spot: "Err, after you all went upstairs, he vanished."

James looked at her. Laura started to sweat.

"I-I- I got the impression that the giant triangle-head was exactly the thing he'd been getting his pants in a knot over at the Elementary school s-so I figured he wanted to maybe go off somewhere to sort out his th-thoughts?"

James continued to stare at her.

Laura slowly sank behind the couch, disappearing from view and from her father's penetrating stare.

"Heather, this is Murphy Pendleton," Travis said, moving out and coming up between her and the ex-convict.

Heather reoriented herself and followed the trucker, peering curiously at the new face.

"Murph, this is Heather."

Murphy glanced to where loud footsteps were slowly descending the lighthouse stairs, before looking back at Heather quietly. "Um, hi."

Heather's expression lit up with something like recognition. "Murphy Pendleton. I _knew_ that name rang a bell." She stood up straighter. "Yeah. Your name was listed in a news blurb I read a short while back... A prison bus derailed near Silent Hill; you were one of the convicts reported dead."

The man went stiff, and the rest of the party looked away from the staircase in surprise.

Heather laughed at his suddenly panicked expression. "Easy. If there's one thing we sort of all know about Silent Hill, it's that no one ever comes _out_ again unless they've dealt with whatever it was that pulled them in. No one here's going to judge you. Most of us have been through the same."

She lifted a hand in friendship.

Detached from normal life, and perhaps too well-trained in solitude and isolation by the prison system, Murphy Pendleton couldn't really bring himself to lift his hand—at first. His fingers felt leaden. Her sudden recognition and friendliness felt like a violation of personal space, and hit all the wrong paranoia buttons. But her cocksure smile, the scars on her face, and the katana at her side told a slightly different story. He backed up a step hesitantly.

Heather shrugged and lowered her hand, her expression filled with understanding instead of hurt. She'd never been the world's most likable person, and Murphy didn't seem the kind that made friends easily. So be it, she'd give him some space. "Technically, I'm the reason you're stuck here again to begin with," she observed as she also took a step backwards. "To be honest, it seems like I need your forgiveness more than you need mine. This hellhole sucks balls."

"So," Eileen interrupted, "what's the plan?"

"Plan?" Heather perked up at that. "The plan is you all stay here knitting while I kick monster ass."

Eileen frowned. "Heather, look. It made sense that you wouldn't let us help you the first time. But now we are all here anyway and-"

"If you think there is any way on the coldest day in _hell_ that I would let you step one inch outside of this Lighthouse on my behalf, in this dimension or any other, then you've got another thing coming Eileen Townshend."

"Don't be stupid, Heather!" Eileen exclaimed, stepping towards her. "If you die, we all probably die, too! You need to stop carrying these things alone and let us help you! Look, you're surrounded by competent people, and-!"

Heather whirled on her and advanced several steps, her eyes narrowing. Behind her, up on the Atrium Mirror, the Seal of the Metatron ignited. "The last time I let someone help me," the young woman growled, "I came back with _this_ instead of Alex Shepherd." She lifted her hand and pointed at where the Pyramid Head—who was not at all an expert at bending down or using railings—had finally alighted on the ground floor and was staring directly at her.

"Heather!" Henry exclaimed softly, grabbing her shoulder. Heather practically threw his arm off.

"Do you see the pattern of his scars?" She asked viciously, still pointing at the Pyramid Monster. "Every moment of every fucking day, Silent Hill is rubbing it into my face that Edwin sicked four human nurses—people—with scalpels on my boyfriend, tied me down, and forced me to watch while they _diced_ him like Kung Pao Chicken for _hours _while _he_ begged me to look away."

Water had started sloughing in cascades down the sides of the Lighthouse where the giant Seal on the tower was melting away ice and snow. At the mirror, the bloody symbol appeared genuinely on fire.

"Heather!" Travis was quite alarmed. This was _not_ the way he'd hoped she'd unload her conscience. "Not like this! Heath! Get a handle on it!"

Heather blinked and glanced back at him, her composure faltering and the orange light flickering out from around the Seal of the Metatron. She staggered slightly, eyes suddenly weary. It had been a long, jarring, eventful day. Painful, too. She grimaced, and then nearly melted when Travis came up and hugged her tightly. She leaned all of her weight back into him and shuddered.

Kaufmann sighed. "Lisa, pull out her chair, will you? Douglas, maybe you could help Mr. Grady..."

The group was largely silent. It parted and flowed about Heather Mason, clearing the path to the dining area and then gently guiding her through. Travis ended up picking Heather up and plopping her in the chair; mostly because he was just in better shape than Douglas. Sort of funny, given that he drove a truck all day, and Douglas was a detective. But then it was hard to argue with knees when they decided to give up on a person.

"No," Elle pushed forward suddenly through the throng. "No I _don't _want her to stop talking."

Douglass, surprised, tried to intercept her. Heather looked up from her daze and towards the girl.

Elle tore free of Douglas and came directly up to the table, staring down at Heather. "What happened?"

"Elle-" Eileen murmured.

"No!" Elle shouted over top of her (and earned a quiet, disapproving rumble from the newest member of their 'party' who, thankfully, seemed a little too perplexed by the whole situation to unleash a smack-down on any of Heather's well-meaning friends), and glared at all the survivors present. "I. Want. To. Know." She looked straight at Heather. "He wrote about you. About your candidness. Did you know that?" Elle stepped forward, staring at the girl who had stolen a boy she'd waited years for. "Tell me the truth. Tell me everything. Tell me what happened to my best friend."

Heather frowned, mouth parted, brows furrowed sadly over her eyes, not sure what to say for the longest time. She looked down at her lap and then back up, and then her eyes drifted slowly over to where her Monster was watching her. At last, she seemed to gather her wits and looked back at Elle.

"Okay," Heather submitted quietly. "I'll start... I'll start from when we first got pulled into the town, looking for you."

* * *

Heather told the story in careful detail, all the way up to and including how she'd eventually escaped the cult.

Telling the gory details, point blank Elle's face, seemed to numb the entire experience for both of them. Although both women had been thoroughly traumatized, neither collapsed, looked away, or even cried. Heather's voice didn't waver as she described the horrible way in which Edwin had murdered Alexander Shepherd. She was even able to accurately recall the his last words of encouragement to her.

_Live._

There were only a few things Heather didn't say, and that was because they were irrelevant. She didn't, for example, mention her 'night' with Alex; although her retelling accurately captured the joking synergy between the two partners as they'd gotten themselves through Silent Hill's dangers. She could even remember how they'd teased each other on the way to get Elle back.

_"Your father wanted to drown you!"_

_"Your mother lit you on fire!"_

Really morbid stuff, if you were an outsider; but from the inside it made sense to everyone who mattered. 

On one hand, Heather sensed Elle might have loved Alex Shepherd—at least on some level—and Heather didn't want to hurt the other girl or intrude on her turf; but Heather also wanted Elle to know she'd never meant for anything to ever happen to him. Heather even briefly touched on how it had been _Alex_ who had finally gotten her to try and access Alessa's old abilities. 

But, when the story was told, and both Alex's loss and the Pyramid Monster's presence were explained, Heather finally broke Elle's gaze and looked down at her hands. Elle stepped back and stared quietly off at nothing, lost in her memories. The two women were quiet for a long moment. Heather hesitantly peeked up at Elle. The younger girl noticed her.

"Thank you," Elle said quietly, and then turned and walked away.

Heather grimaced, then shuddered when one of her friends gently rubbed her shoulder. She looked about to find Henry sitting behind her. "What basically happened after that?" Henry asked gently.

Heather breathed in deep and let it out slowly, shaking her head. "Edwin was guarding the Lighthouse during the day. At night he can't, because monsters surge all around the place and it turns into a hellscape. So I took a gamble: I decided Silent Hill wanted me to get to the Elementary School alive, and I headed out straight into the hellscape after nightfall. I had... one gun. A few bullets. Mostly, I ran."

"You're still going to visit all the Seals?"

Heather nodded. "There's some kind of... lesson or something I'm supposed to learn at each. The one before Alex died... I think it symbolized powerlessness. This one symbolized doubt."

"What happened with 'this one?'"

"It actually took two tries just to get to it. The first time, I was halfway to the school and got cornered out in hell. Then a pinwheel of metal split through the air in front of me and carved my attackers in half. I looked up, and that one," she gestured at the Pyramid Monster, "was fully healed and following me. We haven't always 'gotten along' since then. But he brought me to see Valtiel, and then got me into the underneath of the Elementary School. I would have handled the 'lesson' in the school then but..."

She raised her voice to complain.

"... a certain _someone_ nearly killed me."

The Pyramid Monster, who had watched the entire storytelling from his position in the Atrium, ducked, bleated, and then growled as if to disguise the noise as anything other than an exclamation of surprise. Henry looked towards the monster and then back at her. "What happened?"

"I think I offended him," Heather decided.

Seeing several of her friends suddenly looked very grim and protective, Heather couldn't help the playful, loopy inclination that bubbled up in her:

"Well, it goes like this: After getting three ribs broken and my head concussed, I woke up deep in Nowhere Hellsville, inexplicably being wrangled long range by Xipe, with no clue what was going on and a sneaking suspicion Silent Hill might be in to S&M. Right about then, nothing much was making sense, so when I delivered my 'Help me Obi-Red-PH, you're my only hope,' I wasn't much for asking questions when he actually pulled a Houdini and showed up out of thin air."

At least three men had deflated and blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

"Then the two of them had an awesome Godzilla vs.The Power Ranges battle. Xipe tried to pull an all your base are belong to us, I had to save the day with my awesome, Xipe bravely ran away, and then some time after that I blacked out again. I woke up in front of the Elementary School in the fogworld, and figured Silent Hill had just hit me with a yardage penalty for overstepping the line of scrimmage."

Douglas, Travis, and James shared a baffled look.

"That last one was a football reference," Travis decided.

"I caught 'Godzilla,'" Douglas added.

"Laura?" James called hopefully.

"What are you guys, Beethoven?" Heather asked playfully.

"He was the deaf one, right?" James exclaimed almost excitedly.

Laura started cackling from behind the couch she was still hiding behind. Apparently, leveraging culture differences between generations to foster confusion was a sport both women could appreciate. 

"Henry told us about the conflict with the Butcher," Kaufmann said, approaching Heather with an expression of compassion. He was in agreement with Travis that Heather needed to confront her pain, but it would have been cruel to take the girl's powerful bounce-back coping mechanisms from her at such a vulnerable point. There was no use to be found in _forcing _her to be somber. "Was there anything else you felt we should know?"

Heather paused. "There might be others trapped in Silent Hill even now," she decided.

Kaufmann perked up in surprise. "What did you see?" He and Henry asked simultaneously. 

"Another Pyramid Monster," Heather answered. "Not James's or Alex's by the look, and it could _run. _It was molesting these freaky porcelain dolls that spewed blood everywhere if you chopped off their limbs. It chased me and tried to kill me. Samael rescued me. The two had a metaphorical pecker waving contest until the other one backed off.

"Given that I just entered a shower with one of them, I should probably clarify that all molestation went on while the monsters in question appeared fully clothed. It was more like a macabre parody or _immitation _of sexual harassment. I also got the impression the other Pyramid Monster wasn't personally very clever; he was just going through motions assigned to him by the rules of this place, like any other monster. My behavior somehow accidentally set him off."

Heather rubbed a few nicks on her chin, thinking. Kaufmann and Henry silently deliberated over what sort of person might be trapped in Silent HIll, and, furthermore, about where Samael's 'cleverness' might have come from. They'd compare notes once Heather was asleep.

"Guys, who wears stab vests in America?" she asked

Henry blinked. "I don't know. Police wear Kevlar, is it the same?"

"No," Douglas shook his head. "Kevlar will stop a bullet but not a knife. Stab vests work on different principles of physics. They're used for specific purposes. In other countries where firearms are less common, you'll see police and riot police use them. But here... "

"So we're sure it's not police then?"

"Pretty sure. In fact, stab vests are kind of rare here," Douglas explained. "More common in niche protection jobs."

"Asylum staff," Kaufmann offered.

"Prison guards," Murphy said quietly.

Heather looked up. 'Prison guards' were the first words Murphy'd breathed since Heather had come downstairs. He was looking off at nothing and seemed pensive. She decided that whatever Murphy was thinking about, it was probably best not to pry further.

"Why were you asking?" Douglas inquired.

"The other Pyramid Monster was wearing a stab vest. You know, like, it needed to be _more_ indestructible," she said. "I felt it when I tried to run through its side with my katana. I'd only ever felt something like that in my swordsmanship club, but the feeling of it's not exactly something you forget. Kinda distinctive, and I know my katana," she patted the sword hilt.

"Alright, well," said Eileen. "I think everyone's been through enough for one day, and it's quite clearly almost night. Why don't we get to bed? And, _Heather?_"

The woman looked up at her.

"We can talk about who is going where _later_," she said sternly. "But if you slip out on us in the night or something, we are going to deploy as a unit after you. You got that?"

Heather deflated and nodded. "Yes Ma'am. Not going anywhere for a day with my shoulder this screwed up anyway."

"Go lay down," James suggested. "I'll find Laura."

"Maybe someone else should find Laura," Travis offered even though the girl in question was still most probably only behind a couch in the living room. "I don't think she'll come out of hiding for you."

"Heather should eat first," Douglas disagreed.

Douglass had the right idea. When someone finally plopped some food on her plate, Heather ate as if she were ravenous. Travis and James went looking for Laura, making a wide berth around the Pyramid Monster. Lisa got some soothing tea for Heather. Kaufmann and Henry talked. Eileen took a look at Heather's shoulder.

* * *

When she'd finished dinner, Heather got up and, thanking her friends, started towards the stairs. She wasn't expecting to suddenly be grabbed from behind.

"Elle!" someone shouted.

Before Heather could even registered anything odd had happened, she'd been spun about and there was a kitchen knife to her neck. Her eyes went wide. Holy _shit_!

Suddenly, no one was calm, quiet, or smiling anymore. Travis and James were still gone—apparently Laura really had run off to hide some place—but Douglas and Henry had leapt to their feet. Kaufmann had already been standing and he stepped forward.

"Elle, don't!" Eileen screamed.

"Stay back!" Elle responded loudly. "You heard her, didn't you!?"

"Elle-!"

"STAY BACK!"

The party obliged. Douglas was about to order her down, but Kaufmann reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "Elle," the doctor said calmly, "will you tell us what you are trying to achieve?"

"Achieve!?" Douglas hissed. "You heard her earlier, she's just-"

"Shut up, I'm not CRAZY!" Elle shouted. "You heard her! That thing, that monster, it revived _me_!"

Kaufmann fixed Douglas with a stern _look_, and then stepped forward to speak with Elle on everyone's behalf. "Can you explain?" he asked gently.

"It revived me and it will revive her!" Elle shouted. "You think it's going to let her die!? She said the Boogeyman 'almost' killed her? I call bullshit. It _did_ kill her, but that angel revived her!"

Heather didn't say anything. The knife was drawing blood at her throat, and if she opened her mouth she was going to cut herself. She tried to look out the corner of her eye at the other woman, and realized that her teeth were grit and she didn't _appear _to have a hysterical look about her. This was an expression of _determination. _

Douglas started cursing. Kaufmann didn't relinquish his position of group speaker.

"You believe if you kill Heather, Valtiel will come here?" Kaufmann asked, to make sure he understood.

Elle nodded.

"And you believe that if he _comes_, there may be some offering, prayer, or deal we can make to get him to revive Alex?"

"She said herself its on a time limit!" Elle exclaimed. "It has to happen now!"

Kaufmann nodded thoughtfully. "Elle, what if you're wrong?"

The girl swallowed, hesitantly. "What?"

"What if you are wrong? What if Valtiel doesn't come? Or what if he does, but he takes Heather with him and delivers her to the cult? Valtiel was _changed _in between now and when he last revived you. His intentions might now be very strongly tainted by _their _beliefs, instead of Heather's."

Elle shivered uncertainly. "I have to try," she said. "We have to try!"

Kaufmann frowned. "If you use that knife on her, it doesn't matter what your intentions were. You still will have killed her. Elle, you can't take something like that back."

"Shut up!" the girl exclaimed. "If she loved him, she'd want to try it! He's dead! He's dead and there's tiniest hope we can save him; how can't we take it when he voluntarily came into hell to try and help her!?"

Kaufmann took in a slow breath. "Elle-."

Heather saw the movement before Elle did. An arm snaked around Elle's arm, lightning fast, grabbing on to her hand and pinching like a vice around the knife. A second hand clasped hard against Elle's shoulder for leverage. With a remarkably agile yank, the knife was away from Heather Mason's neck.

Elle gave a strangled sound and looked up to see Murphy standing over her, his hands still closed tightly around her hand and shoulder.

"Take it from someone who knows better," the convict said quietly. "Nothing good comes of this. Let go."

Tears formed in Elle Holloway's eyes. She stared shaking. Then her fingers loosed from about the knife, and Murphy extracted it from her fingers. She released Heather, who stumbled forward and rubbed at her throat. Douglas hugged her away from the conflicted Holloway girl. Elle pulled away from the situation as well, sagging heavily into a nearby wall, with tears dripping down her cheeks.

Murphy watched Elle for a moment, looked at Heather, and then glanced at the Pyramid Monster. "Why didn't he freak out on her?"

Heather laughed. "Because she hadn't done it yet," she answered cryptically. "Thank you, Murphy."

The convict shook his head. "I did it for her as much if not more than for you," he replied just as cryptically, and moved to return the kitchen knife to the kitchen. 

"Look," Heather cleared her throat, "Elle-"

"I already know," the girl murmured.

"Know what?" Heather asked. Even _she_ didn't know what she'd been about to say; though it had probably been about how she'd also thought about subpoenaing Valtiel for help but...

"I already know what he is," Elle answered, looking weakly at the Red Pyramid. "I've seen him before. In my dreams. In the fog, on the day Alex came back to Shepherd's Glenn."

Heather frowned, tried to think of where Elle was going with this, and then belated realized Alex's own tormentor looked exceptionally similar to Heather's monster. She was of the professional opinion that they weren't the same exact creature; but technically they were likely interrelated.

"He was it, wasn't he?" Elle asked. "Alex was God's Judgement over Shepherd's Glenn. Adam's punishment. Everyone's punishment."

All sympathy drained from Heather's face. She had been on the verge of thinking Elle's plan might be a good idea; but instantaneously everything she'd felt went cold and distant. Her eyes narrowed, and she gave Elle a look that everyone around her would describe as disgusted.

"How..." Heather began, and the furious sound of her voice grabbed at Elle's weak attention. "How... _dare _you... pervert... something as personal, as awful, and as... as... _sacred_... as a man's journey through this _hell_... by trying to make it simple? How can you shove something that _big_ through the lens of your own screwed up grief?"

Elle scowled. "It's _true_, isn't it? That's what he was!"

"Alex made his own truth!" Heather shouted back. "We all do! He made his own truth the moment he decided not to walk away from Shepherd's Glenn until he'd rescued _you_. When he decided that, to him, _you _were the only family member he had _left_ to save!"

Elle reeled.

"We're not just some _cogs_ in this Freudian stage play!" Heather advanced on her furiously. "Our choices—all of our choices, however small—are the things that define the truth about ourselves! And we—you, I, him, every one of us—only ever got out because we made the choices that finally freed us!"

Seeing that Elle was shrinking down from her, and that her own voice was raised in anger, Heather backed off and took a moment to breathe. Murphy and the others were watching her uncertainly. Heather grimaced.

"If your theory was the only one valid 'truth' here, then this," Heather explained, gesturing to the Pyramid Monster, "really _would_ be the entirety of Alex Shepherd: A single-minded executioner. And neither you nor he would have ever gotten out at all. But he wasn't. He was a much better man than that, and you helped make him that way. His return to Shepherd's Glenn became a rescue mission for the last innocent person in that place: You."_  
_

Heather stepped back and looked quietly towards the Lighthouse stairs. She needed to sleep. A silence passed over them for awhile. She tried to organize her thoughts or feelings, but exhaustion was making that hard.

"Would it work...?" Elle mumbled quietly.

"No," Heather admitted, to Elle and to herself. "Even if Valtiel were currently friendly, and he stretched his abilities past his limits, we'd still need Alex's remains, which we don't have."

"Then it's already too late?"

Heather nodded. "From what Valtiel was able to explain to me...It's supposed to be the same day. I wasn't even conscious and free on the same day."

Elle shuddered and then slid down the ground to sit and hug herself.

Heather pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her face. "Thank you again, Murphy. If it's all the same to everyone... I need to sleep. I'll be up in my room."

"What about _him_?" Douglass asked, gesturing towards the Pyramid Monster. Heather didn't even have to open her eyes or look to see what he was pointing to.

"He will probably stand creepily next to my bed all night long, licking the air, dreaming of guillotines," Heather answered sarcastically. "Goodnight, everyone."


	52. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now I expect 'truth' has become Heather's least favorite word in the English language. But then maybe it's about to pull a fast one on her...

The Smith knelt. His arms rested in his lap. The kilns were unnaturally quiet.

Lost in his own smoldering embers, it took him a long while to notice his sibling was crouched before him. The angel was very still, his palms flat on the ground between his knees. There was no expression on the Psychopomp's face; his long, toothy maw was closed and invisible against the smooth flesh of his ovoid head.

His Yellow twin wanted to know what he had done.

The Smith looked around slowly, regarding his domain. The agonized and spiritual creatures that had once dwelt there were gone. All throughout the Smithy's chamber, no clay, filth, or grime could be seen; he'd harvested all of it. All of the spirits, all of the mire; everything he could reach from the confines of his cell. He had clawed frantically for every scrap, stretched and strained till his remaining chain had worn welts in his mighty flesh. Yet now, with everything gathered, purified, smelted, and refined, the hardened core of spiritual metal now loitered cold and shapeless atop his forge.

He did not know what to make. His art had failed him. His last creation had already been perfect, _yet it had failed._

_**YOU INTERVENED,** _The Smith growled, trying to lay the blame somewhere else.

His twin didn't twitch; he merely stared.

For the Smith had been _wrong_; the Witch would not _voluntarily _embrace her own destruction. Now he would need angelic help to bring her to Justice; and the angels would bind him to their insufferable Laws. The fingers of the Smith's unbound hand clenched defiantly. Unbound. Unbound! For the first in what felt like eons, the Smith had stumbled upon a measure of freedom; now, after so many eons of captivity, would he truly restore his own chains? Would he accept their shackles? He would need to. Justice was his ultimate purpose, and this was not a sin he could ignore.

He lowered his head because he did not want to talk to his twin. Not yet. He would _not _negotiate _yet._

Heat blazed out angrily from around him. _**Leave Me**** Be.**_

_"something is missing,"_ the Yellow God hazarded.

The Smith looked slowly up at his twin, marking the thoughtful hesitance on his face.

_"i had forgotten for awhile, hadn't i..?"_ the angel rambled. "_forgotten but now... i almost remember, i taste it on my tongue. something... something important is missing..."_

The Smith hesitated, the fingers of his free hand flexing and twitching with nervous energy. A desire swelled within his breast, something sweet and terrifying that elevated his breath. Not too long ago, his twin had come to him freshly punished, and begging answers. The angel had reeked of a purged Blasphemy. Such Blasphemies were only possible because angels had been engineered to Love mortals, and could accidentally fall prey to the sin of putting them before God. The Smith, like all demons, answered only God, and loved only God, and so was incorruptible.

At the time, the Smith had taken the Blasphemy for granted; its stench was thick in his vents, and he knew it to be rightly stricken from his sibling; thus he had dismissed his twin's questions and pleas with laughter. Yet now, the Smith considered that perhaps he had overlooked a relevant detail:

Who was to say that the Scribe was any cleaner than the Psychopomp had been? She too was _merely _an angel, and equally fallible with regards to mortals. In that altered light, what _had_ the Scribe cut from his sibling? What dirty secret, what unclean Falsehood, had she torn from his mind? And had she stopped only at Falsehoods... or had she also stolen away some measure of Truth with them? Had she set out with the goal of tricking and deceiving the Smith? Knowing that the odor of a stricken Blasphemy might also conceal additional, duplicitous alterations for her? Had she _hidden _some corruption beneath actions she never expected him to review?

Had she _bet _on the schism between angel and demon being powerful enough to _prevent _the Smith from consulting the Psychopomp?

The angelic Psychopomp moved slowly, drawing out delicate objects the Smith had not previously seen about his person. The angel now held several tattered leaves of paper, and as his sibling watched, the Psychopomp carefully—almost lovingly—smoothed them out to 'look' at them. It was true that the Metatron could see better than Samael; but it did not take canny vision to smell the human fingerprints on the paper, or place their owner.

Everything inside the Smith suddenly screamed: Do it.

He would have once chance. He lunged forward, grabbing for his nimble twin with both hands whilst the other was distracted.

* * *

As Walter danced away, the Pyramid Monster sent a booming roar after him. The larger monster swiped and grabbed at his agile opponent, and then gave a high pitched shriek of rage when the smaller man actually succeed in pulling a literal rug out from underneath him and tripping him to the floor. His helmet cracked hard into the wall, overturned the bedside table, and sent an old expensive lap tumbling to its demise on the cold, unforgiving floorboards.

Heather had sat up in bed and grabbed her katana before she was even truly awake. Her hair was a disaster, her eyes had dark circles under them, and she was heavily disoriented from being woken up in such a chaotic way. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!?" she shriekked and slurred, her voice enraged and nearly hysterical. She released her katana and whipped a pillow at Walter instead, who was actually quite startled to receive this reaction. "I AM TRYING TO SLEEP!"

"Sister-"

"I AM TRYING TO SLEEP!" she repeated, then nearly died of frustration when Henry and Eileen showed up on the scene to figure out what in tarnation all the commotion was about.

"Heather-"

"AAAUGGGH!" she threw the other bedside lamp at them. Crack, crackle, bang. They ducked out of the room again.

The Pyramid monster grabbed hold of the bed as a prop, and heaved himself back up to his knees, roaring viciously after Walter. The undead man smirked, stepping backwards and spreading out his arms (or, well, his arm + arm stub) either to show he was unarmed or to deliberately provoke an attack, and it wasn't clear _which_.

Heather gave her Pyramid Monster an angry rebuke and a shove, but he seemed oblivious to her. Furthermore, Walter's 'peace gesture' in no way assuaged Samael, who grabbed on to another handful of fabric and—tearing the mattress, sheets, and blankets slightly—hauled himself mostly upright; a now constant metallic thunder roared from beneath his helm.

"AAAAHHHGGGHH!!!" Heather snarled, beating the monster over the helmet with her other pillow, which of course was absolutely ineffectual, unless her goal had been to destroy pillows as quickly and efficiently as possible. "I _HATE_ YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW!"

Walter frowned. "I worry about you, sister."

Heather collapsed and slapped a hand over her face. "Oh _God_," She moaned. "What time is it? Walter, _Walter_, I cannot talk religious philosophy right now," she croaked. "This is like the level of tired of being woken up by the fire alarm after going to bed at three the day before exams. Twice. _Please_."

Walter frowned and folded his arms over his chest (or tried to). The Pyramid Monster roared but, surprisingly, neither dove over the bed to get to him, crushed Heather to death, nor even fully righted himself. He remained poised over the bed, and then suddenly grabbed at her and hauled her closer to him.

Heather loosed a stream of obscenities.

"I'm confused," Eileen said from outside Heather's door. "There are two gods, right? Red and yellow? If Valtiel's yellow, why does Walter talk about him as red, and why do Crimson books talk about resurrection and not just execution? Which is the attendant, and which is the executioner? If Valtiel is the Metatron, why did Walter kill people? Which is the demon? If they're siblings, why are they fighting? Why are they fighting over _Heather? _"

"His purpose is to destroy you sister," Walter cryptically intoned while answering none of Eileen's questions. "Don't be fooled by the skin he wears. You know better. Use him, or flee. Why persist in trying to ignore it? It's the truth-"

Before Heather could kill Walter, Samael made a sharp metallic click of a noise and then suddenly eased a huge knee on the bed, which squeaked ominously.

"Alex-!" Heather yelped, then squealed when the Pyramid Monster suddenly dropped his weight on her, shoving her down into the blankets. He must have weighed five hundred pounds even sans helmet. This was like being sat on by a horse. It shoved all of the air straight out of her.

Walter gaped incredulously, watching as the Pyramid Monster smothered Heather Mason into the blankets with his body. SAmael had wormed one clenched-fingered hand into the sheets and had the other tucked under her. His tongue dropped out of his helmet with a plop, landing in Heather's blonde hair, and he growled low and dangerously up at Walter Sullivan.

At last, finally, the undead cultist did not look so sure of himself. His frown was one of confusion. He stared at the scene in front of him. It wasn't even necessarily the possessive hoarding that confused him; it was the bizarre way _in which_ the monster was doing it.

"You cannot separate a god from its divinity," Walte finally said, a sentiment echoed from that time long ago when he had first explained why Valtiel was beyond saving. "You can build up a thick skin, but deep down you know all it takes is a quick snip to cut it away. And you know what the Crimson Helm intends." Walter then calmly (or at least while affecting calm) turned about and walked out of the room.

Henry peered back in the room and then stiffened in alarm at where he found the monster. "Heather!"

"Can't... breathe..." the Mason girl rasped soundlessly. At the sound of her (or maybe just because Walter had finally left), the Pyramid Monster lifted up his tremendous weight and rested the bulk of it onto his forearms, instead of on _her_. Having just been saved from asphyxia, Heather Mason choked, gagged, and gasped for air. She tried to claw her way out from underneath Samael, but the monster growled unhappily and re-positioned himself to keep her pinned.

"Are you-? What do we do?" Eileen whispered urgently, panicked at the scene. And, being that she had the dirtier mind of the two, Eileen of course then asked the vaguely worded: "Is he hurting you!?"

Heather cackled. "Technically speaking," she wheezed, still slightly smooshed and reeling from the near-crushing, but simultaneously very much enjoying the return of her lung capacity, "he can't _reach_. His hips are too far behind me. But no, I don't think that's what he's trying to accomplish."

Henry blinked, looked at both women, and then covered his face.

* * *

In Nowhere, the exchange had gone differently, and the lunge had worked.

Ensnared, the angel screamed his indignation, and he writhed, twisted, and convulsed to try and free himself. But the Smith held on with all his strength and steadiness. One hand pinned his twin's mass; the other hand stayed fixed upon the back of his neck.

_ **See What I See.** _

An avatars' memories flooded from one god to another, and they were something of an alien violation in the other deity's mind, for all that they were necessary to convey the Smith's meaning. He and his twin had exchanged attacks like these in the past, as each tried to force the other to agree with them about the mortal faithful; and that had been long ago, during the creation of Paradise. This time was different: The Psychopomp had no counterpoint and nothing to fight back with.

As the memories invaded, the angel's mouth parted and his head tilted backwards in dawning horror. Then he howled and shrieked and thrashed anew, trying to get free. His claws tore up the Smith's arms and ripped chunks out of his chest, throat, and metal helmet, bleeding out the larger twin's creative energy.

Still the Smith clung to him, forcing his twin brutally into the ground, trying to hold on to him for every instant more, every additional memory.

It was getting too painful. Fingers latched into the Smith's arms, burying deep into his flesh. His angelic twin was warning him: If he didn't stop, he was going to regret the consequences.

* * *

Kaufmann stayed outside to intercept the other survivors before Heather could murder anyone. Although the Pyramid Monster was technically still pinning her, Heather still had her katana, and Kaufmann wagered she could and would somehow work out a way to kill with it if any more people invaded her bedroom that evening.

Upstairs, Heather was having difficulty convincing Samael to go back to his aloof sentinel mode.

"Well? He's gone. Get off me," Heather complained, stabbing her fingernails ineffectually into the monster's arm. She tried kicking at him, but the monster's legs were off the bed and his hips dragged the side of the mattress so low that the weight of his torso had largely immobilized her own legs. He was so much taller and heavier than a normal person. And he did not appear to be listening to her.

Her Pyramid Monster instead glared down at the floorboards, presumably looking straight in the direction of Walter Sullivan, a low and primal death rattle shuddering out from his helmet menacingly.

"Well, what do we do?" Eileen exclaimed.

"Get him off me!" Heather shouted in bitter frustration.

"He weighs like a ton!" Eileen barked back grumpily.

No one was prepared for Samael to suddenly roar at Eileen, hiking Heather up an inch against him and giving a very small feint or lunge towards the other woman. Eileen leapt backwards in surprise.

"The hell was that!" she yelped in a tiny voice. "He didn't even attack Elle and she-"

The Pyramid Monster hissed violently, the tip of the helmet weaving back and forward and scoring the nice fresh sheets.

Still effectively buried by her companion, her cheek pressed into the mattress and her back crushed into his abdomen, Heather Mason frowned. She listened for a moment, eyes shifting off to look at nothing for a moment. Then she lifted her chin a little and tried to look at Henry.

"I think he's _confused_," she decided slowly.

Henry frowned where he had an arm protectively between Eileen and the monster. "Confused?"

"His heart's racing, and I think he's shaking a little," Heather confirmed.

"As if he were afraid? Of what? Of Walter?"

Heather was so smooshed she couldn't even shrug properly. "Yo _asshole_," she grumbled up at the Pyramid Monster. "You are _crushing me_." The heartbeat against her was steadying, at least. "_Alex_! Walter is gone, and Eileen and Henry aren't going to eat me!"

At that, the Pyramid Monster gave a low, scraping, metallic whine. He shifted his weight about uncertainly, his fingers clenching and unclenching unhelpfully. Heather winced when she thought he might drop on top of her again, then sighed when he calmed down and eased off a few pounds. Henry stepped gingerly into the room, rounded the bed, and came up to get another perspective on the situation.

"Are you in pain?" the man asked.

Heather blinked sullenly. "Not really," she grumbled. "Just stuck."

"Are you in duress?"

Heather and Eileen shot him incredulous stares.

The monster grumbled, shifting about his weight. This time he seemed to consider getting up and picking Heather off the bed; but after a moment he discarded that idea and remained in place.

Henry waited for an answer.

"_Excuse _me!" Heather exclaimed. "A grotesquely hyper-exaggerated re-imagining of my dead boyfriend in X major on top of me and _squishing me_!"

"But are you in duress?"

"_Henry!"_ Eileen hissed. Henry looked at her in confusion.

Heather shifted slightly and thought about the question, rubbing her face slightly. "... I guess all things considered, if it means I get to sleep now without any more interruptions..."

Eileen gave her a funny look.

"What?" Heather snapped. "Let's face it, if we took Henry before he ever met you, made him look like this, killed the real Henry, and then sat this on you, you would be a disaster too."

Eileen kept giving her a funny look.

"...But if that's the plan then you need to give him a little push, because I can't feel my left leg. Easy now. I think he's still reacting so defensively because all these different people and different minds are freaking him out, and you're sort of connected to Walter, so... Oh thank god. Yeah, that push helped. Careful. Get him to lay down on his shoulder, so he's mostly putting his weight on that instead of on _me_..."

* * *

Consequences be** damned.**

When the Psychopomp simply refused to take anymore, he clawed his way free. The Smith bellowed in agony as the talons tore flesh and muscle from his bones in long strips. Under such an onslaught he could not hold on any longer. Slick with his fiery blood, his fingers lost their hold on the angel. His twin scampered away, still reeling in pain and howling.

What madness? What madness?

_**You Said Something Was**** Missing**_, the Smith huffed breathlessly. _**Now We Shall Discover What. **_

But the mechanism through which they discovered 'what' was not the mechanism the Smith had intended.

For the angel had become slicked in the Smith's own blood, which burned red with the potential for life. As the blood trickled down the Psychopomp's back, it seeped into scars. Flesh writhed. Bones crackled. Suddenly, two long appendages were growing up and outward from the angel's back. Long and slender they grew; symmetrical and perfect they grew, and with two joints each, like a bird's. As they stretched out to incredible lengths, they began to form something that was not flesh, sinew, muscle, bone, or metal: Feathers rippled down the lengths, jutting outward down from the skin into a full plumage from the tip of one wing to the tip of the other.

The Smith stared in disbelief.

Shaking violently, spasming, convulsing, and even vomiting once, Lobsel-Vith slowly lifted his head. He took in ragged, harsh breaths, staring at his twin though both of them were eyeless. Then his mouth opened wide and low, contorted into a thousand-toothed shark snarl.

The Smith continued to stare, in bafflement, in awe; for wings could only exist in a cosmology where light, or sky, or at least _freedom_ were valid conceptions. The Blasphemy—if that's what it was—was of magnificent proportions.

Slowly, painfully, the Metatron pushed himself up to all fours. He looked from one wing to the other, flexing each to test that they were indeed valid, functional wings. He later gazed at nothing, lips still curled in a snarl, ransacking and reordering his memories. Then he noticed the crumpled scraps of paper which had been damaged and stained in the struggle. Frowning, he reached out and touched their fragments, drinking in the scent of their maker.

_"Her," _Lobsel-Vith said, with damning reverence.

The Smith sneered, awed and disgusted. The sheer idea that this had been done to his sacred twin through one, single avatar, by contact with mortal paper, by the utterance of one human _word _in some miserable language of no significance...

...it was a sweet, strange, terrible form of madness.

* * *

He was crawling upward through the elevator shaft of Alchemilla hospital, listening disinterestedly to the heartbeats of human faithful. He was dragging an injured nurse by the leg—she needed to be repaired—and as the drone of the fans began to eclipse the sound of human words, a shock suddenly went through him.

His fingers slipped from the nurse's leg. His whole body contorted in agony.

Pain! Such _pain!_ He wirthed and hissed, sliding slightly down the elevator shaft and then leaping onto a ledge. He clawed at his own arms, feeling numb and sticky, and then shrieked and raked at his head.

_Pain! Pain pain! Get it out, get it out, get it out!_ The world was dizzy, it churned, there was a memory of flame, of scrolls, of things burrowing into his skin, his head, flaying him, turning him inside out so that all organs and gray matter and veins were exposed, and then forcing him right-side out again but with something less, something missing, something- something-!

An agonized, low caterwaul rippled out from his throat. He wailed and wailed, clawing at himself and then finally just rocking, his hands, face, arms, and chest all slicked with his own blood. He rocked and rocked and rocked, his hands clasped about his head and shoulders, his moans shaking the pipes and terrifying the many creatures around him, figment and human alike.

He had definitely killed the nurse. It would be much harder to fix her now. But... But...

_But..._

His voice had gone hoarse. Shaking, his head and heart pounding, nearly delirious with pain, he slowly reached down into his boot, and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper he had stored there. His red-gloved fingers smoothed over the paper, unfolding and restoring the shape, causing grime and other stains to recede back into the void.

_Alessa._

He shuddered, brows narrowing in pain as suddenly the most important quest in the world seemed to be to understand something well beyond his reach. His brain felt filled with the mixed static from a thousand angry channels, all blurring together in a smoky mist.

_Sister._

His lips parted and the slender black tongue slid down from the side of his head, reaching forward tentatively to touch the healing paper.

_Cheryl._

His heart clenched. He remembered crouching poised over Insanity's lair, knowing that Brother had been proven victorious and that the intervention was not his to take. Knowing that Xipe would be pleased or displeased depending on what happened next. Knowing that... that...

He remembered her sad eyes looking at him.

Sacrifice/guidance, snow/man, a hundred nightmares/walls of paintings, angel/mice, decorations/pumpkins/chocolate/kit-kat, spaghetti, bleach/bathing, threatening/evening, eight years, god, the seal/the mother, the strand of black hair, dyed golden-

_Are you real?_

Shaking violently, Valtiel clutched the paper drawing to his chest. Then he lifted it up and pressed his bloody face against it, wrapping both arms about it, clutching his shoulders as he smothered himself into the paper.

_Heather._

_Heather, Heather, Heather, Heather._

He heard the human voices, twining up the elevator shaft. His fingers twitched and contorted about the Seals he wore as brands.

"She will be coming here next, I'm sure of it. And yes, I'm sure she will have the demon in tow. But it won't take many of us, just a cleverness Edwin lacks. A small surprise, a bit of a shock. The demon will be dealt with, and she'll be as helpless as a sniffling babe."

Valtiel lifted his head slowly.

Oh _really?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what time it is!? It's...
> 
> Valtiel: Puzzle Time.  
PH: *Facepalm* **The Hell Is It With You and Puzzles? It's Clearly *Rape* Time. **  
Valtiel: *Offended and disturbed* If they get through them, I give them cake!  
PH: ** If They Don't Get Through Them, I Give Them- **  
Offscreen: THE CAKE IS A LIE!  
Heather: *currently eating Valtiel baked goods* "Says who? Valtiel is an excellent baker."  
PH: *Sigh*  
Valtiel: *Offers cake*  
PH: ... *Sits and eats cake with them*


	53. Derailed

It was with a flurry of rust and orange light that Valtiel suddenly appeared atop the Toluca Lighthouse. He snorted and looked around for any sign of danger. Than he hunched down and clawed frantically at the ice-coated roof with his gloved fingers. As he exposed the Seal of the Metatron, he felt gingerly over its markings. At first he sensed nothing, just snow and ice. Then the gentle throbbing of a heartbeat came to him from many stories below. A shudder ran through his body and he moaned.

_Alive_.

Of course she was alive. If she hadn't been, he would have already known. But still, feeling her life force sent pangs of anxiety and relief coiling through his stomach and chest, even at this distance. For a moment, he relished her safety. Then he whined and clawed helplessly at the ice again, wanting to be closer.

Valtiel wanted to go down to her. He wanted to touch her hair and taste her sweet face. An unhappy croon escaped his throat and then he settled down against the lighthouse tower and rubbed his face into his gloves.

_Xipe is watching. If I am to help my Heather, I must preserve the element of surprise. I cannot be seen; or the outcome will be the same as last time. I will be taken from her, and turned against her, and I will forget._

A bitter wave crested through him and he snarled.

_I am lucky she is even still _alive_. To protect her, I must leave._

Yet still he lingered, aloof divine instincts warring with mortal anxiety, such that neither side could take much action. He didn't want to go; and he couldn't get any closer; so he huddled there, wiping away snow and ice and feeling utterly pathetic. More ice continued to rain down, pattering sharply off his back and limbs, and he mumbled out another unhappy coo. Heather had given him a winter coat for Canada, and he wanted it so badly now; not because he was cold or suffering much due to the hail, but because it had been _her_ gift to him, and is purpose and relevance was in fending off cold. Although temporarily lost in nostalgia, Valtiel's face crinkled slightly when he suddenly sensed a presence he did not expect. Then his breath caught in his chest.

_Merciful_ _ Goddess._

_The Demon. The Demon! It is down there with her!_

Valtiel was already halfway down the tower, claws scraping frantically at the old stone blocks.

_Do not touch her! Do not hurt her! She is not the same, she is not the witch, she-! No, no, no! Heather- Heather-! Am so addled, am so broken-_

How could he possibly have forgotten _it_!? He'd brought it to her side! The 'faithful' woman at the hospital had mentioned a demon and he'd _seen_ Heather through its eyes, scented her hair, tasted the soft flesh at the back of her neck as it- it-

_Not hostile_.

He pulled himself up short from placing one gloved hand down on the roof of the main building. His body shook violently, his head jerking rapidly back and forward, his fingers contorting helplessly just inches above the slate shingles. He stared aghast straight through the walls of the Lighthouse, at where he could sense a familiar Red Hate wrapped gently around a fragile human life.

Valtiel of course _knew _it was not hostile. Otherwise it would have already killed her. But the queerness of associating the Demon with the concept of 'non hostile' left him suspended in confusion, in anxiety, in disbelief; instincts again warring.

Valtiel swallowed hard. Then he withdrew his hand back up to rest on the lighthouse tower. He had gathered up a handful of his own discarded memories, but now was struggling to make sense of them. Xuchibara ought to have been Lobsel Vith's adversary in this moment; the judicious half of the twinned god was neigh unstoppable and loathed Alessa with every fiber of himself.

And yet right while Xuchibara had been preparing to unmake Heather Mason, _this_ Red Avatar had begged Valtiel to save her life. If Valtiel remembered correctly, he had even collaborated with it to 'rescue' Heather from another executioner immediately afterward! It was not hostile towards her; in fact it had been... _protective _of her. A uncertain mumble gushed out from the Metatron's lips, and his face pinched together in hesitant fear and envy.

_What has been done to it?_

He wanted to descend into that Lighthouse, rip the avatar apart, and take its place at Heather Mason's side. But it wasn't attacking; it was behaving very oddly; and Valtiel did not have the luxury of being seen. He frowned, huddling down against the wall of the tower, rubbing his face into his hands.

_...But then... what is its purpose? Why does the Smith keep it intact?  
_

Heather was sleeping, so Valtiel reached out with his senses to touch them both, god-avatar and human mortal. He felt... pain. On his own, he had no means to understand that which she had suffered, but her mind provided a context for the ache, and so a sympathetic agony washed through him.

_They murdered your consort... Heather, sweet Heather, so sorry, your pain..._

_But... this is not..._

_Hmm..._

Valtiel tried to calm himself down thoroughly enough so he could _think._

* * *

Elle was the first one brave enough to try and take a shower that follow morning; though of course that meant she had to wash the room first.

There was blood and grime everywhere, but Elle faced the task with a solemn expression and few words. In truth, if she'd told anyone she'd planned to clean the bathroom, someone probably would have helped her; Eileen, Laura, or Lisa chief among them, or even one of the boys, if she didn't mind. But Elle didn't want help. She just wanted some physical activity to keep her busy. The faster the bathroom was clean, the faster she'd be left alone with her thoughts. She took her time.

She'd been at it for almost an hour when she heard someone approach the bathroom door and pause there, likely watching her. At first she thought it might be Travis checking up on Heather. Then, when the footsteps didn't start up again, she realized it was someone else checking up on herself. Irritably she glanced behind her.

Murphy Pendleton was watching Elle quietly.

She winced, remembering her last interaction with him. She was... grateful he'd been there. Grateful and also ashamed. Elle had no more desire to be a murderer than anyone else. She vaguely remembered that Murphy had pulled her off of Henry once before. It seemed Murphy had been paying quite a lot of attention to her. The thought of that made hairs bristle in warning along the back of her neck. Hadn't he been in prison for something?

"Something you want?" she asked.

"Do you need help?" Murphy asked.

"No," she answered quickly, then shut her eyes and took a breath. "No... I... needed something to do."

He glanced around. (Bathrooms and blood; not exactly his favorite mixture for avoiding trips down memory lane.) After a moment he looked back at her.

"I know how you felt."

"No you don't," she laughed, going back to scrubbing the floor.

"Do you really think you're the only one who's ever lost someone?" he asked.

"It wasn't like that. You heard the story about the angel."

"Then why didn't you just tell her the plan? Why put a knife to her neck?"

Elle was quiet for a moment. "Just... just go away."

"I'm sorry." He said. "But yesterday I saw myself standing there with a knife, thinking how badly I'd wished someone would have taken it away from _me_. What I did... It didn't stop the nightmares, and it didn't bring my son back. And the few people I had left? I lost."

This time Elle didn't respond. After a long silence she heard soft footfalls as Murphy came into the bathroom. She looked up as he crouched down beside her. "Do you want some help?" he asked her again.

Elle frowned. "Y-you..." She looked away, smeared hair out of her face, and then looked back at him. "You're not a sexual predator are you?"

Someone like Henry might have interpreted Elle's bizarre question more along the lines of: "Are you going to take advantage of me while I'm emotionally vulnerable?" But this was Murphy, not Henry, and he had more than one reason to look utterly horrified by the question. "No," he answered bluntly. She was practically young enough to be his kid.

Elle looked down and then nodded, and offered him one of her scrub brushes.

They put another hour into cleaning the disastrous bathroom. Murphy was using a can of spray-and-wash shower foam over the inside walls of the shower when he saw Elle perk up. She was staring at something above their heads, and after a moment of indecision she clambered up onto the toilet seat to have a better look. Murphy blinked and stepped out of the shower, looking up at whatever it was she'd caught sight of.

Painted against the glass in coagulate blood, much higher than Heather would have comfortably reached, someone or something had drawn a red heart onto the glass of the shower door.

* * *

Travis made a face.

He'd pushed the door open a foot or so to have a good look, and now he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in the doorway, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Heather was still fast asleep and, hopefully, the rest was doing her some good. But beside her was the Pyramid Head, one of his arms flung out over top of her, his hand clenched and still twitching into the sheets, which had been ripped back from one corner of the mattress. Heather was curled up with her head pillowed on the bicep. 

_Weird as hell._

The huge brute was more or less laying beside her, although he was much too large for the bed. His hips dragged down the edge and one or both knees were likely on the floor. His red helmet had been lolling at a seemingly comfortable angle with the mattress, but now that shifted in response to Travis's presence. A mumbled growl oozed across the room.

"Not gonna hurt her," Travis muttered, wondering if the Red Pyramid could understand him. The monster wasn't behaving in a way that made sense to anyone involved; and it was pretty hard to tell what he might be thinking or planning.

The Pyramid Head rumbled, lifting one free arm and clawing at the air for a moment, before grabbing slowly at Heather's shoulder. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to lunge at Travis, roll on top of Heather, or spontaneously call down Armageddon. The old trucker grimaced and backed up a step. Samael regarded him for a bit, while trying to hold his incredibly heavy helmet steady at an awkward angle. Then his hand slipped down over Heather's shoulder blade and the creature rocked slightly towards her, surrounding her in a careful and protective embrace.

The truck driver shook his head in disbelief, backed out of the room, and pulled the door carefully closed behind him.

* * *

Travis came up to where Henry and Douglass were sitting with some of Eileen's freshly made tea in hand. Honestly he would have preferred coffee, but with the constantly hail outside he wasn't going to turn down a hot cup of anything to wait for a more preferable beverage.

"How is she doing?" Douglass asked of him as he approached. "That thing still up there?"

Travis nodded, "And being a _splendid_ teddy bear," the trucker answered dryly, setting down a cup of tea for Henry and looked at the papers they were examining.

Douglass looked pained. "Are you kidding me? Jesus. We need to figure out some way to obliterate that thing..."

"I don't think Heather would appreciate," Henry said, flipping through pages.

"It's a giant walking death machine," Douglass growled incredulously, lifting a hand up as if he couldn't believe this wasn't obvious to everyone else. "This whole thing is nuts, you can't tell me you don't see that."

Henry blinked at the detective and then shrugged.

"That's it? A shrug. You don't _know_ it's crazy? Sherlock, this town _breaks_ people unless they learn to let go. We need to find some way to help her. Maybe she's just gotta deal with what happened ta... ya'know... the boy."

Travis wasn't sure what he felt about the situation, but he knew a philosophical fight between Douglass and Henry wasn't going to help things. "Is this what you and Elle managed to track down before the Lighthouse transition?" Travis redirected, gesturing to the papers Henry was looking through. The question temporarily derailed the old detective.

Douglass nodded. "Not a whole lot," he muttered. "This Edwin character just came outta nowhere. No records, no past... Just a few blips on the radar here and there, and nothing we had time to follow. He was in Utah a few years back, right around the time of that unsolved mass suicide, but whether he was involved or not we don't know."

"That's quite a stack of paper for 'not a whole lot,' " Travis noted.

"Most of it was Elle tracking down the names of the cult gods. For example, the name 'She-pay' turned up nothin' until Elle typed in some phonetics and came up with this Aztec God. 'Xipe-Totec,' spelled with an 'X.' It's a life-death-rebirth god called 'The Flayed One,' and... well anything Aztec is right up Silent Hill's alley. But it's not a 'Scribe' or anything like one. More a god of agriculture and metalworking; and not female."

"Often in mythology," Kaufmann noted, coming up with his own tea, "deities of agriculture and metalworking were associated with commerce and therefore the invention of the alphabet and writing. The Aztecs were detailed record keepers, but most of our knowledge of them has been lost due to the destruction of artifacts through Spanish occupation."

"Well, whatever," Douglass said dismissively, though Henry and Travis both looked at Kaufmann in surprise. "Creepy thing is, people were sacrificed to him by giving them mock weapons and having them fight a losing battle against soldiers with live weapons. But, otherwise, no real lead there on where Edwin's 'Xipe' came from."

Henry had been looking through some of the papers, and he pushed them forward so the others could see. "This says Samael and Metatron were both names of Jewish angels."

Douglass nodded in confirmation.

"And according to the Kabbalah, the angels Metatron and Samael originally shared the same existence. Samael became the angel of death, aka the angel that killed all the Egyptians during Passover, while Metatron remained an archangel and God's right hand. Samael was the 'severity of God,' and can alternately be seen as an archangel, demon, or devil. And... Hmm. It looks like these writings suggest he division between angels and demons isn't exactly clear cut. It's suggested in some places that, despite being a demon, Samael still serves in the capacity of angel of death. Like 'angel' and 'demon' are _job posts _instead of opposites, the way they are portrayed in Christian mythology."

"You'll find it's 'Samael' and 'Metatron' sharing existence in some places, but 'Sandalphon' replaces one of them in others," Kaufmann noted. 

"You've researched this before?" Henry asked.

The doctor nodded. "Before my memories returned. I looked up all of the mythological names Heather gave me. Later, I ended up remembering what I had learned as a cultist."

"I forgot we had a cult expert on hand," Douglass noted grumpily. "Why don't you share what you know?"

Kaufmann blinked and took a slow sip of his tea, looking thoughtfully out at nothing. "I'm not an expert," he disagreed. "I didn't devote myself completely to the religion and I wasn't what you'd call a 'conjurer,' or someone with 'divine insight'. I knew the lessons and prayers; which are too many to number and would disturb you rather than give hints. I can, however, tell you the sum of what I believe. Maybe that could help. I was thinking of starting with Mrs. Townshend's questions about 'Red' and 'Yellow' gods from yesterday evening."

Kaufmann set his tea down and continued: "There are many angels and demons; The angels are forces which guide and protect humanity, and the demons are tests and punishments. Both are direct servants of God. Neither is 'good' or 'evil;' because those concepts don't really exist in cult philosophy. Instead, we could say that an angel exists to work with the faithful, and a demon exists to work with the sinner.

"The 'Right Hand of God' is a twinned deity, split into two halves, commonly called the 'Red' and 'Yellow' gods, and known by the names 'Lobsel-Vith' and 'Xuchibara.' Their Abrahamic names are Valtiel and Samael. One is typically seen as a demon, and the other as an angel; one's an executor and one's an executioner. But which is which? That differs depending on who you ask. The two's domains overlap at a lot of points, and things get blurry."

"Well what's the truth?" Douglass asked.

Kaufmann looked surprised by the question. "Here? Often, I suppose, there isn't one."

Douglass wrinkled his nose. "What are you getting at?"

"It means that, at any given moment, the 'truth' is partially shaped by the people who believe in it. Or, in other words, that our minds, our psychology, our beliefs, our values, and our moral character contribute to how Silent Hill works. And that our character can even change the truth about vague events that happened in the _past, _or cause chronological inconsistencies."

"This isn't just a psyche trip!" Douglass protested. "That monster up there is _real_. You could see it, Henry could, I could- we all could! There was a thinking mind behind that helmet, a vile one! It isn't just some pipe dream these cultists smoked up!"

"I didn't say it was," Kaufmann answered, offended. "But technically, I'm dead. And I was a _terrible_ person before I died. So who am I now, and who made me into this man?"

Douglass hesitated and actually scooted slightly away from the doctor at the reminder of where Kaufmann came from. "You're saying... You're saying Heather—and all of us—that we change Silent Hill just by existing here? Wait, wait, you're saying not just that we effect the monsters, but that we effect things higher up on the supernatural chain? We're _changing _who the angel and demon are?"

Henry's brows furrowed curiously, while Travis waited for Douglass to get this new revelation into layman's terms.

"So you think _we_ effect how the supernatural 'energy' or 'magic' or whatever of the place works?" Douglass asked. "How? Where's the guidebook or math equation for how all these things add up?"

Kaufmann shifted slightly. "When I last saw Lobsel-Vith, I knew he intended to kill me. And when I realized that, I prayed with all my mind for him to spare me so I could continue helping Heather, and I pictured in my head one of her most ridiculous drawings... And as I watched, he sprouted wings. Huge wings, larger than any man was tall, and feathered like an angel's. And he spared my life."

Kaufmann looked up at them, and continued: "Heather is _much_ more than any of you give her credit for. She senses things you can't. If some of you, like Henry, can be said to have a sixth sense about how this place works, Heather has a seventh. While you and I, Douglass, can't put this place into words except to say that it's awful, vague and difficult to understand; but at least still see it seems to operate on a handful of ideas and premises. Heather goes far beyond that. She has a unique intuition. And just because she can't articulate it in a way that makes sense to us, doesn't mean she's wrong."

"So what's your suggestion, we just sit back and do nothing?" Douglass asked, irritated by all this cloudy mumbo-jumbo.

"My suggestion is we do whatever it is Heather thinks we ought to do," Kaufmann answered. "And support her and look for ways to further her goals."

"She's practically going crazy!" Douglass hollered. "Did you not see the giant scar-covered monster with blood up its arms!?"

"Well, then we help her refine her own brand of 'crazy,'" Kaufmann said slowly. "But, as Elle pointed out to us, there's a large demon with a pyramid for a head following her around like an overzealous guard dog, and I don't exactly want to argue with those kinds of results; or undermine the instincts which commandeered him in the first place. She has _done_ something to the rules of this place."

"You support this 'save the evil cult-angel' plan then?" Douglass asked incredulously.

"I believe that's the path she needs to follow to find the answers she requires. That it's the only way forward. Many of you started off your journey in Silent Hill believing you were after one thing, only to emerge with something else instead. I also believe that her influence on Valtiel still has a role to play. Somehow, all of these things are going to lead her to her confrontation with Edwin. We need to be on _her_ side, no matter what she believes that side to be."

"I can't believe this," Douglass growled. "Are you two hearing this? Do you honestly believe this stuff?"

Henry scratched at his jaw uncertainly; he hadn't had time to shave over the last few days and a slight stubble was coming in. "Sort of," he said after a moment. "I think Valtiel was at least temporarily on her side. And even though this executioner monster is problematic, she's also used it to rescue herself from the cult when absolutely no one else could have helped her. That should be proof enough that she's partially undermining the cult belief system, and leveraging it to work for her."

"Should of known you'd listen to something like this," Douglass answered disapprovingly, and looked to Travis, who of all of them was the most level-headed. "But you I don't get, Travis. Why aren't you up in arms?"

Travis shrugged. "Alessa didn't have to change any gods to be able to control monsters," he said, distancing himself from Kaufmann and Henry's religious explanations. "Even ones the cult intended to destroy her."

"You agreed with the picture plan, though, what was that?" Douglass asked. "You treated a monster like a _person_!"

"What else was there to do?" Travis asked. "At least it was an idea that involved _doing_ something."

"Well I say we _do_ something now," Douglass retorted, "and find a way to kill that Pyramid Thing before the cult 'rewrites' it and turns it back against her! Gotta be a way; maybe send a bullet up under the helmet into the head."

"So then," Kaufmann aggregated, "we have four different perspectives on the Red Pyramid Monster and Valtiel. The detective believes both to be dangerous liabilities. I believe them to be signs that the heavens have been altered. Mr. Townshend believes they are monstrous but individually friendly towards Heather. Mr. Grady believes they are commandeered puppets."

"I didn't say that," Travis answered.

"Well then what _do_ you think that helmeted thing is?" Douglass asked. "That's the question we've been tossing you."

Travis eyed the old detective a long moment, and then answered in a deadpan. "He's built out of everything left of a dead soldier; and he started a job he plans on finishing."

"You gotta be kidding me," Douglass exclaimed. "Just cause she compared the two of them, doesn't make him-!"

Travis shrugged. "There's two layers of god and a few layers of monster in the way."

"What about the pictures? And Valtiel?" Kaufmann asked.

"If memory serves, didn't Harry die right before the first time she saw the 'angel'? Doesn't have to be the full man to get a few of his instincts, after all. Silent Hill ain't picky."

And that was when someone else butted in:

"You're all clueless, just admit it!" Laura hollered from where she was enjoying a cup of yogurt and a hot chocolate milk. "You want to know what's going on? Here, let Laura tell you, she _is_ a genius after all. First, there are two gods: and they're Yellow and Red. The Yellow one is as adorable as a kitten and likes baking. The Red one is hawt and shirtless but has anger issues. Walter's the hypothetical offspring of both and therefore has mommy problems; two fathers, after all. What else do you need to know? The answer to the life, the universe, and everything? It's forty-two."

All four men looked at her blankly, as if they had registered she'd spoken but failed to successfully hear the words.

Laura rolled her eyes dramatically. "Look it's not complicated guys. The monster is currently friendly, so keep the pointy-sharp ends faced towards the enemy and the puppy-nice ends faced towards Heather."

"That could change at any second," Douglass protested.

Laura laughed. "So what? If it changes, adapt. None of you had any idea what the truth was when you went through Silent Hill; It showed you 'real' in its own time."

"So just do nothing?" Douglass snarled. "That's all I'm hearing from you people!"

Laura grinned. "Like I said, you're all clueless. Deal with it. Enjoy not knowing. Welcome to life. And don't make any stupid decisions cause you're scared and want control over the situation. Because you don't want to be like a politician. Everyone hates politicians."

Laura lifted up her chocolate milk and was about to drink a toast to the dumbfounded looks of exasperation on the four mens' faces. Then suddenly it was as if oil and tar had suddenly precipitated into the room beside her, and these components rapidly rushed into the shape of a man and became colored. A young adult Walter reappeared in this manner, unharmed and fully dressed, clutching his doll to his chest. He grabbed at Laura's elbow, looking around nervously.

"It's coming," Sullivan said.

Laura nearly leaped out of her skin at the contact. "You-? Where have you-? Your arm, it's back!"

"It's coming," he repeated, tugging nervously at her.

"What's coming?" she asked, looking around in bemusement. "More arms?"

"The puppet," Walter responded, the doll melting away and his form strengthening, solidifying into an older and less vulnerable shape. The transformation, so close to her, caused every ounce of cocksure arrogance to drip off of Laura Sunderland's face; especially when Walter stepped closer and grasped her shoulder almost painfully tight.

"What are you-?" she hazarded, looking around. Then she threw out and arm and pointed at something behind the other four men with a wide-eyed expression and a pale complexion.

"Lauren are you alright?" Travis asked, then went cold as he heard a curious, gurgling mumble.

"Yellow God!" Laura whispered in a high pitched meep. "Yellow God, _Yellow God!"_


	54. Turning Point

"Yellow God!"

So it was. As if he had erupted right off the page from one of Heather's sketches, the monstrous angel was there. He perched on the atrium mantelpiece, directly in front of the mirror, his head twitching about unnaturally.

"Valtiel!" Henry exclaimed, jumping to his feet to greet the semi-divine creature, as the other two men recoiled, reached for weapons, and braced themselves for an attack.

"Get back!" Douglass hollered, grabbing at Henry's shoulder.

Valtiel gurgled softly, looking at each of the men assembled.

Travis Grady stiffened, the hair raised up on the back of his neck.

"Get Heather!" Henry said, trying to shrug off Douglass.

Valtiel's twitching head snapping inhumanly to the side to fix its blind gaze on Henry Townshend, and he unleased a violently displeased snarl. All assembled persons went silent in the face of his anger. Henry froze in place where he stood. Kaufman sank weakly to his knees. The god gurgled and clicked for a moment, contemplating them, head twisting slowly in a counter-clockwise motion. Then his tongue flicked out and tasted the air, and his 'gaze' turned upward in the direction of the lighthouse staircase and Heather Mason.

"Just another damn monster," Douglass muttered. "What's it doing here?"

Henry brought a finger to his own mouth in a hush gesture.

"He is here to pose a task to you," Walter answered, and the words were so unexpected that Douglass and Henry both broke their stares and twisted about to look at him.

"Like hell it is," Douglass answered, "you read minds now, dead man?"

"The red devil is always with me," Walter answered, his gaze not leaving Valtiel.

"Well there we go crossing gods again," Lauren muttered quietly from Walter's elbow.

"Sullivan, is it hostile?" Travis muttered.

Walter sneered. "He is no animal, Mr. Grady. In this moment he is the embodiment of a _god_. He could kill everyone in this room. You should be on your knees."

"Forgive us old men our bad knees then," Travis muttered, "but we'd prefer to stand."

Valtiel looked down from the staircase again, his 'gaze' settling on Travis Grady. The god contemplated the man for a moment, comparing and contrasting him against Insanity, and reviewing Travis's long history with the witch child Alessa and her later incarnations. Everything was risky; everything was dangerous. But Valtiel's hand had been unveiled and now it needed to be played.

Walter took a deep breath, wincing and grimacing as if he could scarcely believe the words that were about to pass his lips. "If you wish to help Heather Mason, he has a task for you. Something a mortal must do."

"We've had enough of sicko monsters and religious freaks," Douglass growled, slowly lifting up his gun and pointing it at the angel. "Last time we helped _you_, Sullivan, you were trying to get her _killed_!"

"Well we ended up saving her life!" Lauren counters. "Dude, this is the thing she was drawing pictures of in a chef's hat, you can't just shrug off something like this!"

"Oh yeah?" Douglass snarled. "Ask em both—Sullivan and the monster—if they ain't doing this for some religious reason! If they ain't doing it because its their interpretation of what their Devil-God's will is!"

The Lighthouse atrium shuddered, the lights dimming, the dishware rattling. Tea frosted over in its cups, and rust and grime ghosted out from the Seal of the Metatron on the mirror behind Valtiel, oozing out in cracks over the house. Valtiel himself seemed to rear up a bit, becoming larger, more ominous, more dangerous in the changing light.

Douglass swore and stumbled backwards, and Travis did as well, while Kaufmann cowered on the floor.

"I thought this place was a safehouse!" Travis breathed, alarmed.

"He's a _god_," Kaufmann wailed breathlessly into the carpet, hands clasped before his face in panicked devotion. "He is Lobsel-Vith, Right Hand of The Goddess! He's a _god!"_

"Then he should tremble in his goddamn boots because we've killed those before!" Douglass answered, and in that moment he was perhaps the least frightened, most fool-hearty, and yet strangely enough the most powerful person present. "That Goddess is staying in hell where she belongs, where Heather left her, and we aren't doing _shit _for anyone who'd bring her back!"

Valtiel lowered his head, his body bunching up to leap, a low death-rattle of a cougar growl working up in his throat. Pyramid Heads and Butchers were not the only godlings with terrible instincts. The wood beneath his fingertips crackled and sputtered as his gloved fingertips tightened into it. Douglass Cartland sneered, trigger happy.

"You can be killed," he told Valtiel. "Just like all of em monsters. You can be killed; because nothing here's full real. Cause you're just idea made flesh, like the rest of them; the dogs, the wall monsters, the worms; all of em. See if you can't! See if you can move faster than I can pull a trigger you disgusting, faceless, sack of-"

Henry shouldered his way in front of Douglass, shoving the man back into a couch and looking up at Valtiel. He flung out his arms to protect the detective. "Don't!" he exclaimed.

Valtiel continued to growl or croak, or whatever; his sound somewhere between a dinosaur's and that ghost woman's from the Ring.

"Henry-!" Douglass snarled, but Travis had pounced on the detective's position and slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing Henry knew better than either of them.

"Don't!" Henry begged of Valtiel, and then in that moment he guessed at the reason Heather was being excluded. "If you do this, Heather will know you are here; Xipe will _know_!"

A tense moment followed, one in which every muscle in Valtiel's body remained primed for a deadly pounce.

"Please. Can you blame him for loving Heather?" Henry pushed, "Can you blame him for wanting to protect her? He's like an uncle to her, he helped raise and mentor her after Harry died."

The angel held his position, but his death-rattle quieted down. His control over the lights seemed to relax subtly. Rust and grime slithered away.

Henry took in a deep breath, and took a slow step towards the god. "We can't just save her from one type of pyre to send her straight to another, even a gentler one-" he pleaded for the monster to understand. Valtiel hissed, arching a little more. "But I still _remember_ what you did when Alex and I mentioned the idea of you hurting or betraying her. I also _remember_ the way you said goodbye to her."

At that, the god seemed to deflate a little, his back no longer so arched, and his otherworldly hold over the lighthouse slipping. His tongue emerged from the mouth at the side of his head, writhing through the air. Henry looked up at the alien entity, trying not to show his awe. Valtiel looked so incredibly similar to The One Truth monster. "Will your task help her get _out_? Safely?"

"Without impregnating her!" Travis growled. "Without any more burning, or dicing, or any of that bull!"

Valtiel looked at Travis for a moment, and then turned his gaze back to Henry. Steadily, carefully, the avatar of Lobsel-Vith nodded his head.

"Yes," Walter whispered, looking overwhelmed and sick at the words he was speaking, "This world is no longer any place for a Goddess."

* * *

She was warm and a familiar scent hung protectively around her shoulders like a cloak. But, as Heather Mason came awake, she found herself facing another gray, December morning in Hell. The bedroom windows were heavily frosted. The heat engulfing her from behind was definitely inhuman. A glimmer of red told her the helmet's was over her head, and she probably shouldn't prop herself up any further unless she wanted a nasty bruise.

_This is cruel, _she thought tiredly of Silent Hill, and shifted about to try and escape. Her bed-mate must have been awake from the start or else her movement had startled him because he gave a low rumble. Heather stilled. A dry, coiling sensation she'd come to associate with his tongue brushed over her ear and then smoothed itself against her temple. She sighed voicelessly and slumped.

"Good morning," she grumbled, thinking she would pay good money for James Sunderland to walk into the room and for Henry to take a picture of the man's reaction to this ridiculous sight. The hell had set Samael off last night? Walter. Heather really wanted to talk to Walter, actually, and not just to knock him upside the head for pissing off her violent helper-demon.

Samael made a soft rumbling sound, but it felt likely he was merely responding to the sound of her voice, and hadn't really heard the words.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a nasty temper, a paranoia streak a mild wide, and an unhealthy obsession with spatial control?"

The Pyramid Monster gave a startled, strangled sound that made her jump in place. Was he listening? A pregnant, almost thoughtful silence followed. Heather waited. And then her monster gave her a soft, almost apologetic-sounding mumble.

_The hell? _Heather's brows pinched together as she tried to figure this out. She rolled and twisted about to face him, looking up into the rubbery black underneath of the red helmet.

"Alex?" she asked.

The monster made a deep, attentive hum. Heather grimaced but then lifted up a hand and gently touched the rubber-coated paneling at the base of the helmet and the side of his neck. The monster shifted his weight, picking himself up a little.

"I can't figure you out," she said softly. "I've given up trying. It hurts my head. I think about everything that could go wrong, and everything that has; over and over again in circles with no answers or resolutions. I think about six thousand different possible 'truths' that all end with me dying, and its just too much to worry about anymore." The tongue tugged hair out of her face and smoothed it behind her ear. "I'm just glad you're still with me now," she murmured, and the monster grumbled gently in response.

"Do you remember Elle?" she asked after awhile, testing to see if she was right about the soldier-persona's origins. He answered her with a soft affirmative grunt. "You remember her fondly?" At that the Pyramid Monster felt uncertain. He didn't seem to remember details; only that Elle Holloway was important and also innocent.

"Do you remember being born?" she asked him eventually, but he responded only with puzzled silence. She wanted to know, "Was it when I summoned you?" and he gave her a hesitant, negative snort in response. "Was it nineteen eighty-five?"

_Was Not. _He managed to lower the helmet tip between the two of them without killing her. That was a necessary step if he wanted to sit up on his own.

Heather perked up a little, her brows creasing curiously. "Was it a bazillion years ago in a fiery explosion of godly awesomeness?"

Samael yanked on her hair with his tongue and growled in displeasure.

Heather winced and reached up to try and stop the appendage. "You have _always_ flipped out on me whenever I've called you a god. First it was when I called you 'Samael' and then it was whenever I said the 'X' word, and now you just nearly yanked my hair out. But why?" she rubbed her head. "You look almost exactly like him."

That seemed to send a wave of surprise or alarm through her bizarre companion. _Him?_

"Xuch- Well, I thought it was Xuchilbara. When I was fighting the monster under the school-grounds, I kept seeing_ him_ in its place. He was bigger than you, and even more ridiculously proportioned, but other than that he looked basically the same. He had chains wrapped around one of his arms. And he was really familiar. I think maybe I've seen him once or twice before, maybe in other visions, or dreams." The monster's tongue twitched where it was coiled in her hair.

Heather paused, wondering if perhaps she had stumbled upon the answer to her own question. She also realized that maybe this wasn't the best line of questions to be asking a homicidal demigod with a split personality. "You're slightly different," she said anyway. "_That's_ why you don't like being called the same thing as him. He's trying to kill me-"

At that she felt the monster's tongue suddenly wrap about her neck and squeeze. Heather twisted and grabbed at the appendage in surprise. The Red monster heaved himself up over her, his rough and violent hands grasping at her clothing. She thought, _Are you shitting me?_ and imagined she was about to be throttled to death over something so stupid. But then the tongue loosened and writhed back into her hair. Heather choked in some air and winced, looking solemnly up at the monster.

He hovered above her, his hands drawn back from her throat, his enormous arms shaking slightly. His breath was heavy.

"... and _you're_ trying very hard not to," she finished quietly.

A heavy slam; the monster's hands buried deep into the mattress on either side of her head, the fingers twisting into the sheets and kneading the fabric. A sharp, hollow bark hissed out from behind the red helmet. He really was shaking with effort. After a moment of coiled tension, the helm bowed slightly and a hollow, metallic gush of air oozed out.

Heather squirmed up into a partially sitting position, avoiding collision with the great helm and snaking her arms about Samael's neck. For a bit, there was quiet aside from his heavy breathing. She hugged tightly to him, till his exertions were less and he seemed calmer, and her mind wandered a bit.

"Ya know," she said with a slightly bitter laugh, "I don't think this is what Alex fell in love with. This: Vulnerable, dependent, miserable, trying to always do and say the right thing and not get in trouble..."

The Pyramid Creature stilled, listening to her.

"I was always a fighter. Always the bitch who got things done, who lived, who made it through even when other people couldn't. I wasn't even a very nice kid. I was the strong one, the survivor. Except maybe I wasn't. Maybe _I_ wasn't tough; maybe the truth is I was the result of... of my Dad caring about me."

She gathered her thoughts for a moment. "Alessa was basically like a goddess herself in this place, but she had no motivation at all to live. The will to live, it doesn't originally come from inside it's... Our strength grows in us but originally it comes from other people. The people we love, the people who love us, that's who we live for. Even when they're gone, they give us the motivation to keep going. That's why I fought to win; that's why I could kill the god-thing and get the hell out of there and she never _could; even_ when I was just some loud-mouthed punk and she could change the laws of physics with her mind." Heather took in a slow breath. "She didn't have anyone; past, present, or future; worth living for."

The sound of her voice or perhaps her physical nearness seemed to have a pacifying affect on her monster. Her heart-felt tone seemed to have entranced him. He was no longer shaking, and the lines of anger and tension along the muscles in his back had faded. The tongue wrapped gingerly around her arm.

"Listen to me," Heather murmured after a few moments of contemplation, and hoped the monster was lucid enough to understand and anchored enough not to be offended. "I've touched your face. I know there's an eye under all that metal; one that contracts in daylight and dilates in the dark. It's not a man's eye, exactly, but it's human enough to show expressions I recognize. And on your face, do you know what I've seen? Anger, at moments. But mostly doubt. Fear. And then, after a long time, vulnerability."

The tongue wrung her arm, but the monster remained calm and still. Her arms tightened around his neck. "Stay with me," she implored him, and she heard a derisive rumble that made her scowl. "You think I don't know I sound crazy? That I don't know what you are, or what you represent, or what god you came from, or that you don't even expect me to survive? I'm still begging you. If you have the choice, stay with me. Stick to me like glue. And assuming you're as real as Valtiel..." She opened her eyes, "When all this is over, _find me_."

The monster shifted, startled by her, and his head turned so quickly the pyramid edge dug into her side and nearly gave her a concussion. _Non-sequitur._

"Find me. You. The giant, blade-wielding angry monster who likes skinning people and has relatives that dry-rape mannequins. Find me. You belong with me."

A wave of disbelief, confusion, anger, disgust.

"You're carrying what's left of my dead friend," she disagreed, definitively. "And more important than that: You've been helping me. So you belong with me as much as you'd belong anywhere. Why not? The alleged insanity of that statement is just one of a thousand other details to be ironed out in the wash. Because it doesn't matter, does it? Normal can be whatever I say it is." Normal could be Valtiel baking Christmas cookies. That, somehow, had been a valid normal.

Silent Hill's most terrifying monster was still for a very long moment.

Heather hugged to him tightly, because her situation was already ludicrous, and because after what she'd been through and given who was helping her, there was nothing she could ask for or say that was truly crazy or out of the ordinary.

_You can hear me, _Samael realized.

"Like words and feelings in my bones," Heather agreed, resting her cheek on the monster's shoulder, suddenly sleepy again. "Walter talks a lot... Most of the time you and Valtiel feel more raw, and much less human, and you don't really use words all that often. I only feel the loud things. Valtiel pouts; you get insulted. I've started to get about two seconds early warning before you decide to hit something because each time it's like someone poured lava in my skeleton."

This seemed to confuse and unsettle the monster. After a moment he leaned backwards, re-positioning his legs. Heather blinked and almost released him; then he grasped her about the back with both arms and pulled her firmly into his lap and up against his chest.

Heather leaned against him, gratefully. "I can hear you," she echoed, listening to alien, inhuman emotions. "I don't understand you, but I can hear you, and I've started to notice _you make choices, _and I'm pretty sure that means you're somehow real."


	55. Smooch

Valtiel's answer was shocking and, for a moment, no one said anything. Laura looked up at Walter in confusion, trying to get some more clues about what might be happening here today. Walter looked repulsed by the message he'd just relayed, and maybe even just a little bit angry about it. How could so many interrelated entities be at such cross-purposes with one another?

"Then... What do you want from us?" Travis asked.

Valtiel 'glanced' briefly at Walter, licked the air, and then looked about the room and settled his attention on Kaufmann, who had finally gotten back to his feet and was quivering with timid awe.

_Relay my will to them._

Michael Kaufmann cringed but then nodded obediently as a slew of word and feeling oozed through his skull. He scratched fervently at his temple for a moment, closing his eyes. "The Yellow God..." Kaufmann began, triggering the others to look back at him. "He says the Butcher is already familiar the item he wants us to retrieve." Then the doctor blanched when he realized Valtiel was referring to Travis, and to sins either absolved or all-together imagined. He looked apologetically at Mr. Grady, who was wearing a sour expression.

"The 'Butcher'?" sputtered Douglas, unsure to what Kafumann was referring. "Why do _you_ hear him now, wasn't the dead hobo good enough!?"

Kaufmann took a breath, steadying himself. "I am dead as well, Douglas Cartland, and perhaps less useful than Mr. Sullivan as I am incredibly vulnerable if I step out from this Lighthouse. Still, I can convey this message." He closed his eyes and tried to relate the message as truthfully as he could, losing himself in its meaning. "Lobsel-Vith bids us to recover Past, Future, Present, Truth, and Falsehood. He says we must discover them before the faithful do, that we may define them. If Xipe is permitted to assemble the trinity, it will become a cage for the Witch Queen. But if _we_ command it into a triangle, we can protect us all from hell's temptations and through it forge a fire: A demonic weapon fit to unmake demons-"

"The hell are you-?!" Douglas sputtered at the opaque explanation.

"The Flauros," Travis interpreted flatly, looking back at Valtiel with a measure of surprise or respect. "He wants us to get to the Flauros before Edwin does. Does he know where it is?"

Valtiel nodded. Kaufmann furrowed his brow as the answers came to him. This time Douglas didn't protest Michael Kaufmann's translation, looking at Travis for guidance. "You know what he wants?" the detective asked more calmly. "What's it do?"

Travis shrugged, still regarding Valtiel. "Seems to depend a lot on who's holding it."

"I think I understand," Kaufmann muttered aloud, then raised his voice. "He says Silent Hill herself has taken the Flauros and scattered it. The... Past is probably in the ruins of the old Gillespie house... Future is associated with rebirth and I think it's in a maternity ward... Present is in... in the city's little Art and Historical Museum."

"And the last two?" Travis prompted.

Kaufmann blanched. "He-he says the only way to find Falsehood is to sacrifice James Sunderland and the only way to find Truth will kill Henry Townshend."

"Bullshit." Douglas disagreed with any attempt to embark on party-slaying quests. "Like hell we will."

"He wishes to accompany you to guide you around these obstacles safely," Kaufmann quickly explained. "But if he does, Xipe will know."

"So we _die_ so he can keep his cover?" the detective continued in an absurd tone.

"No," Walter answered in Michael Kaufmann's stead, amused by Douglas's pugnaciousness. "The Metatron is asking for a volunteer. One of you lets him inside your head; then he can direct you from afar."

"Kaufmann's already got him talking in his head," Douglas snarled, but Walter just laughed.

"Kaufmann is dead and has very little power; Mother could easily cannibalize him at any moment. He's only safe in this Lighthouse because sister tampered with it. No, no... Whoever this volunteer is, it needs to be someone with a little more motive power than that. In fact, I think dear Henry would do."

Douglas sneered in disgust and looked around at the other men. "If either of you volunteer for this I'm going to lose all the respect I have for you," he told them. Valtiel appeared mildly irritated with the detective.

"I'll do it," volunteered Laura, and every man in the room immediately spun towards her, Walter Sullivan included.

"Laura!" Henry exclaimed, dearly hoping James Sunderland did not have the power to turn into a Pyramid Head and skewer them all, no matter how badly they let him down.

She shrugged, earning a curious head-tilt from Valtiel. "What? I'll do it. You just need someone to act as your phone line to us," she asked the god, "right?"

Valtiel nodded, and Laura stepped forward.

"Fine then, I volunteer."

"No. No you do _not._" The words rocketed viciously across the room in a sharp and poignant hiss. Remarkably, the speaker was not an oncoming James Sunderland, Heather Mason, or either of the protective old men who were already occupying the room. The speaker was Walter. As Laura moved towards Valtiel, Walter Sullivan seized her by the arm and dragged her backwards, stepping between her and the god with his considerable height and glaring down fiercely at the blonde woman.

"But-"

"You. Will. Not." repeated Sullivan in a whisper so powerful it filled the room, and he seized her shoulders and squeezed to force her gaze to his. Laura frowned in confusion and Valtiel gave an inquisitive gurgle. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Walter stood up straight and looked back towards the assembled men, his fellow ghost, and lastly at the god. One of his hands dripped free of Laura's shoulder and clenched into a fist. "... _I_ will," he decided, light colored eyes staring piercingly at the deity. "I will go with them. I can endure Silent Hill for that long and I will relay your instructions _faithfully_."

Valtiel made a baffled noise that twisted subtly into amusement.

"How do _we_ know we can trust you?" Travis asked Walter, and Douglas harrumphed in agreement.

Sullivan glanced at the two men. "I suppose you'd rather turn on the evening news late one Saturday night and see Ms. Sunderland being carted off by the police, covered in blood, screaming the Devil made her do it?" Laura winced. Valtiel yowled in displeasure. Henry cleared his throat.

"It'll have to do," Henry mediated softly. "Walter has helped us more than once and that has to count for something."

Laura was frankly baffled. She looked up at Walter. Then she looked at Valtiel. "Wait a minute. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Laura protested, remembering something that ought to have been obvious to everyone. "Hold on, time out, wait a second. You guys were just in a _huge_ hour-long religious debate over him just a second ago!" She suddenly stepped forward, elbowing her way past Walter who grabbed at her but did not successfully manage to stop her. Valtiel seemed as confused as anyone as he 'peered' down at the pugnacious girl confronting him.

For, "You!" she accused the deity. "You're the reason Walter says Heather's doomed! He came and told everyone that the reason she'd never get out alive is because she couldn't stay focused on Edwin; the real reason she was still here was she wanted to _save_ you!"

Valtiel perked up in surprise. Laura kept talking:

"-And Walter went on this big discussion about how that was impossible, how you didn't really exist. There was something about puppets and angry gods and dolls and demons, and hell I don't even really know what else because this place is _weird_ and I can tell no one has the slightest clue what's going on half the time anyway. The point is, I still remember what we were talking about a minute ago: We were talking about whether Heather was crazy or sane to keep trying to find a way to get you to remember her. Well you remember her, don't you? Jesus, she's like falling apart she wants that so badly- why are you avoiding her!?"

Valtiel visibly cringed, hunkering down on the mantle with his face turned guiltily up towards the Lighthouse staircase. A soft and yearning croon escaped him, a bizarre noise that unsettled nearly everyone in the room. Laura frowned and planted her hands on her hips. She was waiting on an answer!"

"Heather must not learn I- he- he was here," Kaufmann said prohibitively, and it was clear the strain of being used as Valtiel's mouthpiece was starting to overwhelm him. "To be brief and to put things simply: Xipe. He must avoid her for now, and help from afar."

"Well- well- what _happened_?" Laura protested the lack of reunion. "You remember her! How?

Valtiel looked slowly back down at them, then shifted his posture. He slipped his fingers into one of his boots, and drew out a familiar bundle of folded papers. "These were clever," Kaufmann said for him.

At that, Douglass really did stare. Travis glanced at Henry in surprise; Henry beamed radiantly. They looked back at Valtiel and for perhaps the first time it occurred to them that they might genuinely have the wrong idea about what sort of creature they were dealing with. As Valtiel tucked the papers carefully away, Kaufmann said: "He begs us to watch Xuchibara closely.'

"Why?" Laura asked, surprised out of her thoughts. "I-I mean... you know, aside from the obvious reasons."

"He says Xuchibara is Xipe's enemy," Kaufmann explained. "But that does not make him our friend. Or Heather's."

"So he's going to hurt her? Betray her?" Laura pressed.

"He is a demon of Punishment and Justice," Kaufmann answered softly, eyes slightly glazed. "His presence here is not entirely understood, and his future actions cannot be foreseen. Perhaps he will bring down fire on those who murdered the Mother's consort; perhaps he will seek to unmake the Mother herself for witchcraft. He is a terrifying unknown. Watch him closely."

"Shouldn't we just kill the monster and be done with it?" Douglas argued.

"Even if you could, what good would it do you?" Kaufmann continued, his voice calm. "He would be reborn with the next Descent of Paradise which, given the current state of things, occurs every evening promptly at nightfall. You should also recall this Lighthouse cannot keep him out; the Demon goes where he pleases. And should you attack him, he is unlikely to remain undecided or in limbo over yours or Heather Mason's fates. The next time he encountered you, you would be as mere obstacles for him to remove."

Douglas shifted, not having realized or considered this.

"Rest assured, there is no one who wishes to 'kill' the Red Avatar greater than I, except, perhaps, Xipe," Kaufmann continued on Valtiel's behalf. "And that 'except' is significant to us all. I must go. Take care of her."

"Wait!" Laura exclaimed, earning a perplexed glance from Walter and from almost everyone else in the room. She blinked at their stares and then looked at Valtiel. "... Does Xipe have an anglicized name?" she asked.

Kaufmann blinked dumbly for a moment. "Pardon?"

It somehow pleased Laura very much that adorable cult gods should use the word 'pardon.'

"An anglicized name," she pressed. "An Abrahamic name? You know... Er... Lobsel-Vith, Valtiel. Xuchibara, Samael... Xipe...?"

Travis furrowed his brow and shook his head incredulously. "What? Kid, what's it matter what she's called? Those are pretty names stolen from other religions to cover up the truth of things anyway."

Valtiel frowned, looking quite baffled by the question. He looked down at his hands and tasted the air, glanced up at the ceiling, and then finally looked back at Laura.

"Akrasiel," Kaufmann answered quietly. "Her name is Akrasiel."

Then they heard above them the creaking of bed springs and the low rumble of a familiar Red Wrath. Valtiel glanced towards the sound and then stepped backwards, straight into the mirror behind him. He slipped through it as effortlessly as if it were an open door to another room. The glass clouded up with his passing. Within seconds, he was gone.

Kaufmann wavered and then sunk to his knees, clutching at his head. Travis and Douglas both relaxed considerably, while Henry beamed at a mobile phone he was holding. "Finally," the quiet man murmured, flicking through his new photographs with a happy little smile.

Laura looked at all of these men and then looked up at Walter Sullivan, who was still attached to her at the shoulder. "Hey," she said slowly, reaching up to put a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?" she asked him.

Walter tilted his head to the side and said nothing. Instead he regarded her quietly for a long time; so long it made her shift and twitch awkwardly. Douglas nudged Henry, who managed to look up from his new photos of Valtiel just long enough to realize that a certain undead cultist was gazing intently at James Sunderland's daughter, and that he probably ought to be worried.

"Is there something on my face?" Laura wondered at last, quite bewildered.

Walter stared at her a moment longer before looked behind him and considering both Henry and Travis. Then he looked back at Laura. "This family," he noted as he released her shoulder and moved to step around her, "sets an interesting precedent for showing kindness to monsters. You fit right in, Miss Sunderland."

"Wait, where are you going?" Laura queried. "You're sure you really are healed?"

"I'll be around," Walter told her, his voice somewhat sardonic. As she watched, he began to crumble into black tar. "Though not close enough to make the big angry brute upstairs nervous." Then with a rush of black goo into all the cracks and crevasses of the lighthouse, he vanished.

"... I was in the middle of _talking_ to you!" Laura exclaimed to the air. "Bull. That's starting to get _annoying_. What do you think the odds are he can still hear me?"

* * *

When Heather Mason got down the lighthouse stairs for the day, it was an hour past noon. A number of her family members were talking conspiratorially with one another in the atrium. She smiled, still scarcely believing they were with her and that they were safe. Behind her, she heard an annoyed grumble as her gargantuan monster once more attempted to negotiate the staircase.

"Watch your head," she called helpfully up behind her, earning a return growl. At the sound of her voice, Douglas turned about and then stood and quickly came up to her. The others each paused in what they were doing to look her way. "You want some help?" she called up to Samael. 'Down' did not appear to be his best direction. The irritated grumble he gave her in response made her laugh.

"Heather," the old detective murmured in relief as he reached her side, hesitating a moment before coming forward the last step and hugging her. "How you feeling?"

Heather chuckled and hugged back warmly. "My arm wants to detach from my body and run away," she joked.

"Mmh," the old man grunted, pulling back from her. "You should have Laura and the others take a look at it then." There was a heavy thud from the staircase as the monster managed to lower himself by one more step. Douglas looked up in its direction, though he couldn't see it just yet. "What are we supposed to do about that thing?"

"Try not to piss him off?" Heather suggested.

"Mmph, noted," the detective agreed as he took her arm and gently led her towards the kitchen table for breakfast. Now that Valtiel had explained the monster would simply be resurrected if they killed it, he realized they had to be careful around it and hope it remained friendly for as long as possible. "But there has to be a way to put it down for good."

A rush of panic fluttered through the Mason girl's stomach and she looked worriedly at the detective. "Douglas?" He didn't immediately look at her, still glaring back behind them at the staircase. "_Uncle_." That got his attention. "You're focusing on the wrong Silent Hill monster," she told him. "I need Xipe dead, not him."

"Heather, that thing is going to kill you. It is _dangerous_."

"Jesus holy fuck is he dangerous," she agreed. "He chewed through a church full of armed cultists like they were shooting out bubbles instead of bullets; cleaved them open like warm, strawberry-filled poptarts!"

"And you're not focusing on killing it?" he asked her, remembering Valtiel's warning. "Heath, why?"

"He's helping me," she pointed out, irritated.

"It's going to _kill you_!" Douglass protested, and wished he could tell her about Valtiel. She'd been right and he'd been wrong and now he wasn't even allowed to admit it. Plus, _that_ was the monster she really wanted near her, not this thing; she deserved to know Valtiel was alright. "You talk about keeping us out of danger and you want to walk out there with that thing like it's some kind of protector? Well it's not, Heather. It's not even on your _side_. We are. We are your friends, and you need to talk to us so we can help you get out of this place alive!"

Heather was starting to get irritated at how little progress she was seeing in Douglas's acceptance of this whole situation. She of course was not aware that he'd just come to terms with Valtiel. All his worry and frustration had to transfer over to _something_. "First of all," she growled, "he is not an 'it.' Literally. You're welcome to sneak a peek up his skirts if you doubt me."

Douglas made a disturbed face and Laura perked up from where she was working her way through a shaved turkey sandwich Lisa had made for her. "Wait, what now?"

"Second of all-"

"How big?" Laura asked, whirling about and grabbing on to the back of her chair, looking at Heather wide wide and curious eyes.

"Laura!" James exclaimed in horror from where he'd joined Travis, Henry and the others. They'd been planning out their illicit escape from the lighthouse and how they planned to track down the Flauros pieces. Heather looked at Laura incredulously while Douglas resorted to a face palm and Travis merely sighed.

"What?" Laura complained. "I was just curious! Oh come on, don't you think I've seen all the beach-ball-sized breasts in the Beastiary? Yeah, wonder whose psyches those came from! You're trying to tell me you didn't get a little excited once or twice? I saw those nurses Heather drew in the bestiary for _her_ experience, detective; you can't tell me that monster came from _her_ psychology."

"It's a personification of sexual violence," Travis tried to explain as Douglas turned a funny maroon shade and Heather wondered aloud ("Oh, so _that's_ why I saw them..."). Laura laughed.

"So?" she asked as if Travis's concerns were absurd. "I don't want to have _sex_ with him, are you crazy? He's the size of a horse, he'd rip a person in half! But why _shouldn't_ I admire a living Statue of Hercules when it walks by?"

"This conversation has gone on long enough," Heather decided. "Alright, everyone, it's early. I want my breakfast. I want to hug all of you and ask you how you've been and yell at you for being willing to endanger yourselves and all that great stuff. But seeing as I'm going to get accosted at every turn on account of this brute," she continued, jerking her thumb at where the Pyramid Monster was finally getting down the last few steps of the staircase, "let me set down some groundwork first-"

Samael could smell Valtiel, and that made his shoulders rise. He gave a short burst of a roar, sniffing at the air and turning his helm towards the damaged mantelpiece. His noise drew the attention of everyone in the lighthouse. Lisa had been cooking in the kitchen, and she cried out and ducked behind the kitchen cabinets. Eileen and Elle were in another room and they poked their way out to see what was happening. Those people already in the atrium touched their weapons uncertainly. Douglas—made nervous by Valtiel's warning—reached out to grab Heather's arm. Unfortunately he grabbed her previously dislocated shoulder, and Heather gave a small cry of pain. The red helmet's tip whipped towards him and the monster advanced menacingly, fingers curling at the air, body hunching down towards them.

"H-hey, easy," Heather encouraged soothingly when she realized her companion was about to throw a fit. She wormed free of Douglas, intercepted her Pyramid Monster, reached up to touch the low-hanging tip of his helm and then draped her fingers over one of his grasping hands. Samael focused on her with relative ease; he seemed more lucid or at least less temperamental than he had the day before, and it was only a brief instant before his tongue writhed out to find her face. The black appendage trailed up and down her cheek for a moment before pushing greedily back into her hair. His posture loosened and his hands lowered back to his sides.

"He does that every time you talk to him." James noted nervously. Heather glanced back at her friends, noticing different levels of disturbed concern on their faces. Douglas approved the least, of course; but then he was the one most firmly rooted in normality and he'd been there watching Heather grow and develop since she was just a teenager. "The... tongue..." James specified, realizing his question was vague. "It always looks like he's going to strangle you."

Heather shook her head. "No, it's fine. I think he just likes my hair." She looked back up at the monster. "Let's see if we can find something you can eat for breakfast, mm?" He probably didn't need to eat, but she didn't care; it was a diversion for everyone involved. When she slipped her hand down into his and tugged him along, the Pyramid Monster pleasantly surprised her by simply following her into the kitchen. She glanced at Douglas as she passed, knowing the man desperately wanted to say something. "Douglas, don't you dare do anything to make yourself look like a poptart."

Laura watched the giant creature as appreciatively as one might admire a work of art, at the muscles which slid elegantly under tight skin and at the shapes the heavy leather skirt suggested about the hips and rump. James cuffed her over the head. Laura winced and scowled at him; she had no doubt every man in the room would either be staring or looking away with a blush on his face if there were an eight foot partially nude female monster in the room. Double standards. At least _she_ wasn't ashamed to admit she was only human!

"It eats?" Henry asked curiously, his concerns regarding the monster's hostility forgotten as he slipped forward to get a better view.

Heather shrugged. "Who knows?" she asked as finally reached the refrigerator and pantry and began rummaging for food.

Travis decided to head over there, holding his hands slightly elevated and apart from his weapons to show he had no hostile intention. Samael glanced at him briefly but then lowered his attention back to Heather "You're alright?" Travis queried, looking warily up at the monster. "He won't hurt you?"

Heather laughed as she pulled out a large tub of plain yogurt and a crate of week-old strawberries. "Don't tempt him," she cautioned wryly. "Far be it from me to make promises for him. He gets miffed whenever someone tries to predict his actions." She was just about to stand when she noticed Lisa was cowering in the corner of the kitchen, staring in horrified awe up at Samael. Woops. Time to lead him back out again.

"You're treading a thin line," the trucker murmured as Heather wrestled open the yogurt tub and then picked out a strawberry and dipped it into the white cream. She examined the resulting confection and then looked up at her monster.

"Is this small enough?" she asked. "It's not much thicker than your tongue." Samael wavered slightly as if confused by the question. Then, after a few moments of silent wondering, his tongue disentangled from her hair and reached up to wrap uncertainly about the treat. He held it for a moment after she released it, as if he didn't know what to do with it. Then his tongue retracted in fits and starts. In a few seconds it had disappeared into some unknown crevice of the helmet, and a short moment after that the monster suddenly gave a tremendous shudder.

Heather blinked and then broke out laughing. "A little sour?" she asked wryly, unable to keep the giggles from her voice. "Wait a minute, couldn't you taste it when you were holding it?"

Her monster reached out his tongue and coiled it upward, demanding more strawberries; and that was when Heather judged today to have already been won. This time when she wanted him to move, she didn't bother to take his hand, but rather backed up out of the kitchen (trying to save Lisa Garland a terrible death by heart attack) and back towards the atrium. Her monster followed unhesitatingly, and then snatched up the very first yogurt-covered morsel she offered him next.

"Are those _strawberries__?" _Laura protested, getting up off of her couch and coming up to investigate this phenomenon. "Doesn't he know he's a giant monster? Has he no shame? Surely he is mistaken and would like some liver and fava beans now?"

Heather laughed loudly and shook her head. "Nah, not the strawberries. He likes the yogurt."

"How the devil can you tell that?" Laura asked, mystified; she and Henry both wore looks of fascination while the rest of the party was confused and unsettled. "How did you _know_ that ahead of time?"

Heather tossed the next strawberry into the air and her monster caught it and gobbled it up. "Valtiel liked yogurt," she answered.

At that, Samael gave Heather a startled 'glance' and then made a vexed growling noise. Laura winced, and she too wished she could tell Heather about Valtiel.

"Oh come on," Heather protested, laughing. "Your and Valtiel's respective deities are like twins or something. You can like the same dairy products without me confusing one of you for the other." Samael gave a disgruntled hiss, but seemed partially mollified. Still, when she offered him another strawberry he didn't immediately take it. "Samael," she laughed. "I promise you I love you for more than your passing resemblance to Valtiel. Please, I'm sorry if you feel I'm teasing you. It is normal for a person to laugh when they're happy."

Samael did not look exactly pleased with her, but despite all the other shit the universe had done onto Heather Mason, it had somehow brought into existence two twinned and monstrous deities who loved the taste of yogurt. Her monster could not resist the allure of the white cream, and after a moment he stepped towards her again and lapped curiously at the yogurt tub. She supplied him with another dipped strawberry. He grumbled contently.

"Heather, you're _weird_," Laura told her, impressed by what she was watching. "How the hell is this your life?"

The older woman grinned and offered up the whole yogurt tub to Samael, helping him get his calloused and uncoordinated hands around the container so that he could eat at his leisure. "Well," she said, "beats the alternative of running and screaming, mm?"

"What are you going to do with him?" Laura asked her as Heather backed up from the monster and smiled to herself. "Walter seems to think he's going to turn on you and that it's inevitable, but... well... _Kaufmann_ suggested that maybe Silent Hill is oriented such that he feels his purpose in being summoned is to kill Edwin. I don't think either of them are accounting for yogurt-eating weirdness, though. What's your angle?" Honestly, Laura was starting to think that when it came to monsters, Heather's interpretation was the only one that mattered. Had something to do with her Alessahood no doubt.

"Thanks for reminding me I wanted to say something," Heather realized. Then she turned to face her friends. "Look, I want everyone to listen up so we can get this out of the way," she began. "Samael—that's what I call this specific Red Pyramid to tell him apart from others—is my babysitter. His job is to keep Xipe and Edwin from killing me _just long_ _enough_ for Xuchibara to arrange my gruesomely bloody and poetically justified end. Presumably if that doesn't work out for him in the end, and everything else fails to kill me, Xuchibara will eventually try to use Samael to finish the job."

That sent a chill down everyone's spine. Samael lifted his head from the yogurt tub and stared at her.

"Why believe that?" Kaufmann asked, disturbed. She'd clearly won Valtiel's heart, why not hope for the best? "You summoned him, and you summoned him because of Edwin. Why not believe his sense of justice is tied to yours? Why assume the god himself wants you dead?"

"Because he told me so. Repeatedly. He has shown up in my dreams, in visions, and through his avatars, as a gigantic flaming hammer-wielding monster, and has said: "Summon me. I will unmake you. Summon me and I will unmake them all.""

Before Douglas could say something about how Heather was clearly going crazy, Laura asked a sardonic, "And you're here feeding this one yogurt?"

Heather looked up at her monster, and realized Samael was staring at her. The feeling she got from him startled her so much she stepped forward nearly with the intention of reassuring him. Then she became confused by the impulse, and by the realization she had no idea how to reassure even her own friends, because she didn't want to set Samael off into an anger fit like the one earlier that morning. She didn't want to take his ability to seemingly 'make choices' for granted. She paused, stuck in place by a bunch of 'rules' she barely understood about how to keep her monster docile.

"He's Justice. He's our sins," Lisa whimpered from behind the counters, and at that Heather shook her head. 

"You guys need to lighten up," she advised. "This place is too awful to bear otherwise."

"Awful to bear?" Elle asked in an incredulous voice. She was carrying a spare Uzi and had stepped out in front of Eileen and was glaring at Heather. "Awful to bear? This is _hell_! Of course it's awful to bear! Look at Douglas, he is worried out of his mind for you, and you are making jokes and playing with a monster whom _you yourself_ believe is going to kill you. Take us seriously! One wrong move and you're dead; we're dead; and no one's sacrifices counted for anything! You need to _grow up_, Heather Mason."

Heather glanced at the young woman who'd previously threatened to kill her, and then looked back up at her monster, who was still staring at her.

"Samael, Listen," she addressed Samael, completely ignoring Elle's outburst. "I love Disney movies and I hate shitty endings." She smiled. "But let's face it, Silent Hill hasn't exactly given me much sunshine or rainbows just because I believed in them." Her smile softened into something gentler and composed. "You and I both know you're more than a simple puppet. But I'm not going to hold your obligations to justice against you either. Do as you will. Just promise not to hold it against _me_ if and when I have to fight back to save myself. Is that fair enough?"

"You-" Elle was insulted and ready to advance, but then the Pyramid Monster was moving, and Elle shied backwards reflexively from him. Samael stepped towards Heather, looming over her, his helm still cocked slightly to the side. After a moment, he turned slightly and, with both hands and with a care that could only stem from a very large and powerful individual with clear intent but shoddy fine motor skills, he settled the yogurt tub down on an atrium table.

Samael turned his gaze back towards Heather, and then shifted to lean down over her. His tongue lifted up and brushed over her face. Then his hands followed, his knuckles brushing slowly over her arms. Baffled silent, the party watched. Samael shifted to better support the weight of his helmet, and then carefully touched the backs of his fingers to her face, her hair.

Heather frowned, a little surprised. Then she felt a warmth permeating through her bones, a heat that went more primitive than words. Her breath caught in her chest temporarily and then she felt a rush of sadness and relief. The monster rumbled warmly and then cupped the back of her head with his fingers and drew her a little closer, looping his tongue about her further, till the tip of the tongue emerged on the other side of her, and tapped her softly on the cheek.

To say the party was absolutely and utterly estranged would have been true, with the possibly exception of Henry Townshend, for whom this was instead quite fascinating. Well, and then there was Laura; who at that moment wanted to compose a rather blush-worthy but suitably dramatic romance novel.

"Heather..." Douglas called uncertainly, but when it was quite clear the pyramid monster meant her no harm and she wasn't distressed, the detective had no idea what to say. Travis wore a sour expression. He glanced at Kaufmann and wondered bitterly if the man wagered this was some 'sign' that Heather was impacting the greater forces of Silent Hill.

Elle scowled bitterly, but before she could move forward she felt a presence come up beside her, and looked to see Murphy standing there. He looked from her face down to the Uzi she was clutching—Eileen and her now each had one—and then back to her face. He did not have to ask aloud if she were okay, and she didn't have to say anything at all to answer him.

The Pyramid Monster grasped at Heather's arm, perhaps with the intention of conveying more through touch—but when she suddenly winced, he paused. Then he gave a grumbled and clasped his had firmly about the base of the woman's neck. He stood up straight, looked to Travis, and after a moment of licking the air, gently propelled Heather in the trucker's direction.

"Your arm," Travis realized, stepping forward gingerly to receive her (and keeping an eye on the monster to make sure he wasn't upsetting the brute). "Come on, let's have Laura take a look at you." Heather winced and glanced back at where the Pyramid Monster was loitering innocently at the edge of the kitchen. He was retrieving his yogurt. Then she looked up at Travis and nodded.

"Sit her down on the couch," Laura suggested. "Let's see what you've done to yourself." Travis and Douglas moved to help Heather along, settling her down on the couch as if she were some kind of invalid. Lisa was finally managing to crawl back up to a standing position in the kitchen, and gave a faint, "I'll make some more tea..." Laura sat on the couch edge and rolled up Heather's shirt sleeve.

The Pyramid Head watched for a moment and licked at the air. Then, apparently either bored or curious, or perhaps just satisfied with his quarry's safety, he turned and walked back towards the kitchen. This time, Lisa had the good sense to flee.

Travis glanced after the monster and then looked back down at Heather. He didn't know what to say, whether in understanding or concern. One thing was for certain; she did have an odd way of securing at least the partial allegiance of things everyone else would be running away from.

Henry was snapping some photos of the Red Pyramid, but after a bit he came back and peered curiously down at Heather's black-and-blue shoulder. "Heather," he began, and glanced at where Murphy had drawn Elle off to the side and was apparently counseling her. Henry was very concerned Elle wouldn't be able to handle much talk about Samael's individual personality components. "Permit me to review your plan verbally. If I am correct, you plan to leave Toluca Lighthouse tomorrow or the day after with the Pyramid Monster in tow. You want to go to the third Seal and, as with the two previous Seals, you expect there to be a 'guardian.' You want none of us to come with you; you wish for us to remain in place at this Lighthouse."

"That plan's shit," Douglas told her flatly.

"It's not," Travis disagreed, although it was hard for him to do so. Douglas glared at him in surprise.

"How you figure?"

"Timing," Travis responded. "There's two Seals left. That's two more chances for 'justice' before her monster needs to turn coat. Samael will most likely stick around protecting her from cultists up until that point."

"That thing is a _killer_," Douglas said disapprovingly.

"Good, I could use that," Heather growled.

"We want to _help_ you," Douglass told her. "Don't walk out there and get killed trying to protect us!"

"If you try to come with me, you'll be liabilities," Heather told him bitterly. "Not because you're incompetent but because Silent Hill will use you against me. But Samael? Samael can't die. He's the kindest thing Silent Hill's ever done for me. If a cultist shoots him, he can't die. If a monster knocks him into a pit of lava, he can't die. If he turns on me and I have to blow his brains out or drop a building on him, he can't die."

"Which is bloody terrifying!" Douglass exclaimed.

"To _you_!" Heather tried to make him realize. "To me, it's a godsend! It means no matter how bad things happen, no matter how badly Silent Hill's poetic justice fucks me over, nothing I or anyone else do can cause the death of the one person/thing/whatever- who has been my singular and constant companion since the moment Alex Shepherd died."

Douglas blinked at her.

"I don't want to kill him, Douglas!" she begged him to understand. "I want to _live_ more than I want to die believing in Disney endings; but the fact that I will _never have to kill the thing that saved my life and took care of me_ is sort of really fucking important to me. I just have to, I don't know, banish him a couple times if he turns on me. Theoretically, he'll never die."

Douglas thought of Valtiel and grimaced to himself. He was on the brink of blurting it all out to her, to keep her from transferring her attachment to that knife-wielding _thing. _But instead he scratched his chin and peered at her. "Something you ain't telling me," he said. Then he thought back to her fight with Elle the day before and he blinked at her. "Heather... did it... or _he__..._ just... '_kiss'_ you?" he asked about the oddly intimate behavior they'd just witnessed.

Heather wrinkled her nose and looked up at Travis and Henry, who both looked like they wanted to remind her that the Pyramid Thing was only an echo, and most certainly _not_ her boyfriend. "Yeah, something like that," she sighed. "So if you try tucking a grenade under his helmet, I am going to have a minor panic attack, despite the fact that he can't even die. Lay off the topic, and focus on how I'm going to fight Xipe. I will deal with Samael when and how I have to."

Laura shot her a look from where she'd been examining her shoulder. "Dayum," she drawled. "Why were you looking under his skirts again?" Heather gave Laura a critical look.

"Do not follow that thought," she told the younger girl. "I have enough to manage with a bipolar, homicidal, eight foot demon following me around. I don't need your imagination making it worse."

"Alright, alright," Laura relented, and went back to her work.

"Is Walter around?" Heather asked.

"I think so," Laura answered. "He said he'd be. Only I think he's avoiding your new friend."

"I want to talk to him," Heather sighed. "But maybe that's best for now."

"You need a week of bedrest," Laura told her. "You've got bruises as black as the ace of spades, and you're covered in them. You're lucky some of these cuts closed without needing stitches, and the others should be medicated to keep infection out."

"We don't have weeks," Travis muttered. "See what you can do with a day." He looked to Heather. "We need to do something to help you._ Need._ Tell us anything we can do. Something that puts us as far from the cultists as you'd like, but _something_."

Heather shook her head, biting her teeth together as Laura rubbed something into her injuries and rebandaged them.

"We are all of us survivors," the trucker argued. "We are not going to sit here on our hands. If you don't give us something, we're more likely to follow you."

Heather looked down. "Aglaophotis. It's an herb, a red preparation from an herb. Kaufmann might know where to find some or might not. If the worst happens and the cult catches me, maybe it'll give us all a second chance."

"I'm going to tie your arm up in a sling," Laura told her. "Avoid using it for today. I'd tell you not to use it for a month, but obviously that's not an option with you."

"I need to be able to hold a katana," Heather answered as she let Laura tie up the arm. The younger girl laughed at her.

"You won't even be able to hold on to a gun through the kickback," Laura retorted. "Put your thumb and forefinger together and try to keep me from pulling them apart. Tch. How did you manage to kill anything in this condition?"

"Adrenaline," Heather supposed. "I need that arm."

Laura shook her head. "A chiropractic adjustment might help give you some strength back, but you're still going to have the endurance of a paper fairy without proper healing. One unlucky over-extension and you'll throw it out again."

"You can do chriopracty?" Heather asked, surprised.

Laura made a sort of 'ehh' expression by tilting her shoulders back and forward and then splaying her hands out palms up for a moment. "Officially?"

"Do it then," the older girl told her trustingly. Laura smirked and then went to feel carefully along Heather's spine and had the older girl straighten herself out and turn about and shift her arms and legs a bit.

"I'll never know why you prefer that katana," Douglass muttered, trying to get over what he'd just realized about Samael. "You're going to go out there with nothing more than a tiny knife to protect yourself, with a bad arm?"

They heard a sharp bark, like a laugh, from the kitchen. Douglass blinked and turned around to see the Red Pyramid was watching them. He had been looking around their kitchen out of curiosity or perhaps boredom, and his fingers were now wrapped around the handle of an incredibly sharp, vegetable knife. As the group looked at him, he lifted up the culinary implement and then brought it down quickly on the kitchen table, burying the tip up to the hilt through the slate counter top, shattering the stone. He released it and then looked up at them with a strangely malicious curiously.

"No," Henry said slowly. "She's going out there with a very _big_ knife protecting her. About six feet I'd wager. Heather, he won't be able to follow you all the way to the Seal's trial. Will you trust myself or Travis to go with you?"

"You probably wouldn't be able to go any further than him," Heather answered. "I'll leave tomorrow night, so even the cult doesn't see me. Little monsters are the least of my worries, and I won't have to sustain much of a fight until I get to the Seal; I'm more worried about real people and their guns than anything else."


	56. Sudden Flight

"She slept till one, and she's already napping?" James asked, peering in at where Heather was wrapped up in blankets on the couch.

"She's speed-healing," Laura observed. "I think mentally, too, not just physically." She glanced at Kaufmann, who nodded. "Probably coping with depression."

"So we're really letting her out alone tomorrow?" Eileen asked, dealing out a hand of rummy.

"She ain't giving us much of a choice," Douglass responded, and after a moment he begrudgingly accepted the hand he was dealt. It felt _insane_ to be playing cards in the middle of Silent Hill, but honestly they didn't have anything left to plan. If they didn't distract themselves they were all going to go crazy and eat each other.

"We'll be keeping busy on our own errands," Travis reminded him. "And odds are, she'll need both things we're before the end."

"Right, but if anything happens to _her..._" Douglass muttered, then sighed and looked up at where a giant red-helmeted monster had entered the kitchen again. He'd roamed around the lighthouse for a bit, and no one could quite figure out what motive was driving him. He seemed _different_ from the day before.

"I wonder if he could use a gun," Henry thought aloud. Douglass gave him a look, reached over, and smacked him upside the back of his head. Henry winced and gave Douglass a wide-eyed and innocent look.

"As if he weren't already having enough fun with the kitchen knives," Eileen chastised. "_Henry_, don't give him any ideas!"

"Well he appears to be blind," Henry still speculated. "I was wondering if he can aim, or if he just relies on force?"

"We don't need to find out," Douglas told him. "Eileen, how's Elle doing?"

"She's still really troubled," the other woman told them, brows furrowing in thought, watching as the Red Pyramid picked up a cleaver from the kitchen knife rack. He gave a slight toss and caught it again. Eileen reached out and poked Travis, who was already watching. "Murphy is talking to her. He's a nice guy, you know." Travis grunted.

"What's with the whole 'Butcher' thing?" Douglas asked, because now he'd also noticed the cleaver. "Thought that was just the name of one of your monsters."

"Silent Hill was nice enough never to fully explain," Travis responded. "Which makes me think it was showing me bits of a bad-end future that never ended up happening." The Red Pyramid turned towards him and cocked its head to the side. Then it pulled the cleaver back in a strained overhand position. Travis's eyes widened. He kicked his chair out from beneath himself and ducked just as a clever went flying through the air he'd previously inhabited. It sank into the wall behind him.

"Jesus!" Eileen shrieked, and Douglass had his handgun out immediately and had dropped his cards. The others were in various states of distress when the Red Pyramid monster suddenly _laughed_. They'd heard the noise before: A hoarse, grating bark that echoed out from within the helmet.

Travis grimaced, pulled himself up to his feet and eyed the monster warily. It had given him a pretty long wind-up to escape during. "Nice," he told the monster dryly. "Anything else?"

The monster rumbled almost innocently, picking up a carving knife and apparently looking at James. Travis tensed, grasping the handle of his fireman's axe. James turned pale and prepped himself to duck. The monster rumbled as if amused and trailed the tip of the carving knife over the slate counter top for a moment, eliciting a high-pitched shrieking noise. James cringed violently, but then peeled himself out of his chare and glared up at the Pyramid Monster. "Please stop," he requested.

Samael tilted his massive helm to the side, and then apparently grew bored of whatever it was he was doing. He dropped the carving knife, licked at the air, and then rounded the kitchen cabinets. For a moment the party worried he would approach their table and harass someone, but instead he lumbered into the atrium, looking down at where Heather was sleeping.

"The hell?" Douglas protested. "That's what we're sending her out with. That half-god, crazy thing with the split personality."

Kaufmann frowned, scratching his chin in puzzlement. "I don't think that was the god half, Mr. Cartland," the doctor reflected. "Or the monster, for that matter. I think the human persona might be sociopathic."

"Oh _great_. That's _better_," the detective drawled sarcastically. "He's going split her in _half_ the moment they walk out that door, isn't he? Glad I know which components to credit."

The monster twitched and looked back at them slowly, one of his hands clenching. Henry caught the motion and blanched, standing up quickly and grabbing Douglas's shoulder. "Careful!" the quiet man begged their detective in a surprisingly urgent voice. "He's very lucid right now and much smarter than you think. The last 'god' you said might kill Heather didn't take your observations very well."_  
_

"I'm just sayin-"

"Douglas. Do not make us look like strawberry poptarts," Henry said in a low voice that surprised everyone. "We need today and tomorrow to be calm."

Hearing no further accusations or predictions about his behavior, Samael licked the air and then slowly looked back to Heather Mason. His posture seemed to soften a little. He sniffed at the air and glanced at the mantelpiece once or twice, but afterwards he seemed content to stand there. For hours. 

* * *

Mercy was a spiderweb of chains. They restrained him, dragged him down, prevented him from moving forward. He was strength; unstoppable strength; punishment, justice, hatred (, _vengeance_). His shape conveyed his power, his perfection. But these chains, _her _love and mercy, _her_ tenderness and forgiveness, they were unbreakable.

The Witch smiled at him cruelly, like a child torturing a spider instead of a man who rightly feared the Devil, her fingertips drumming on the bars of his prison. "You want out for awhile?" she asked him. He roared. She nodded with her equivalent of sympathy, all false, all mocking. "So do I." He seethed, hating how she thought of him, hating her perception of him as a slave, a toy, a weapon. He was _Justice_. "Do you hate them like I hate them?" she asked.

**ALL HUMANITY,** he answered. She nodded, understanding that he meant her most of all.

"Will you help me kill them?"

**AND YOU, **he promised her, and he did not struggle or roar in uttering it, because it seemed they had a common goal. They wanted destruction. They wanted death. They would have their justice; each of them. That was fine with her. She reached towards him, offering to extend his leash...

But this was just a dream. A memory. A description of a time long past.

Alessa wasn't there at all, and he was not nearly so chained. He stood in the halls of Hell, shackled only by one arm, wreathed in flame. He was alive, partially freed, and furious. In front of him stood the golden-haired spirit. He smelled Alessa's soul in her; he knew his old co-conspirator, his enemy, his prey, and he was so _close_.

The golden-haired spirit frowned up at him, expression cloudy as if she barely aware of her own existence.

**SUMMON ME, **he told her.

The golden spirit hesitated. Her shape shifted and twisted, the hair blackening towards Alessa's color but then brightening to golden again. Her brows furrowed as she tried to stabilize herself, to gain some clarity. He took a slow step towards her.

**FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED, **he told her. **LONG AGO YOU MADE THIS PACT WITH ME. YOU ASKED ME TO DESTROY YOUR ENEMIES IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR END. FINISH THIS PACT. SUMMON ME. THE SEALS ARE IN PLACE. THE END IS AT HAND. YOU HAVE THE POWER, YOU WHO ARE BOTH CONJURER AND BLASPHEMER. FINISH THIS, AND SUMMON ME.**

_Travis, James, Walter, Laura, Eileen, Elle, Henry, Kaufmann, Lisa, Douglas, Murphy._

_Valtiel. Valtiel resurrected me. Valtiel gave me my katana._

_I'm dreaming._

Heather looked hesitantly up at the demon, her eyes widening as she took on the benefits of lucid dreaming. This place, this vision, it was eerily familiar. She'd had something similar to it before. She remembered being ripped apart by a Pyramid Monster and then reaching out to take his hand.

"Xuchibara," She realized, anchoring herself with the name of the gigantic monster.

Haloed in light-less flame, the Smith nodded. **YES, **he acknowledged.

She stepped forward uncertainly, looking up at the god. "I've seen you before," She said slowly. "When I summoned the Pyramid Monster-"

**YOU ARE THE WITCH. THE BLASPHEMER, **he told her. **YOU CAME TO ME MANY YEARS AGO. YOU SOUGHT THE DESTRUCTION OF THOSE WHO TORMENTED YOU. FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED. GIVE ME MY JUSTICE, AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOURS.**

Heather frowned. "I am _not_ Alessa Gillespie," She told the creature. He reared up at that, flames billowing out from them, his fist clenching.

**YOU CANNOT HIDE. I KNOW YOUR SOUL, BLASPHEMER. I KNOW ITS SMELL, I HAVE SENSED YOUR TAINT ON THE SPIRITS YOU HAVE TOUCHED. AND I WILL UNMAKE YOU, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. UNLEASH ME FROM MY PRISON. YOU KNOW THE WORDS TO EXTEND MY CHAINS. YOU KNOW THE WORDS TO SUMMON ME, TO SET YOUR CONDITIONS, TO SPARE THE FAITHLESS YOUR END. SUMMON ME FOR JUSTICE. SUMMON ME AND I WILL UNMAKE THEM AND GIVE YOU OBLIVION.**

For a moment Heather faltered under a pall of intimidation, but then suddenly She sneered and stepped towards him. "I don't _need_ you," She told him, sparking new levels of rage. "I'm not a helpless child anymore, I'm not the kid whose mother caged her inside her own body with nothing more than things like _you_ for company! I will unmake _Silent Hill itself_, and I am not so eager to die that I need you to do it for me!"

**IS THAT SO,** he glowered, and Heather frowned. She hesitated a moment, and then took another step forward.

"You saved me," She remembered. "I asked you for help, and you saved me."

**SUMMON. ME. **he told her. **YOU ARE WASTING TIME. IF I AM FORCED TO SEND MY CREATIONS DESTROY YOU, MY CHAINS WILL BE NO LONGER THAN THEY ARE NOW AFTER YOUR DEATH, AND I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO GIVE YOU YOUR VENGEANCE. AND IF THE FAITHFUL WE BOTH SO HATE DESTROY YOU, THEY WILL DENY US BOTH OUR JUSTICE. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE. SUMMON ME.**

Heather shook her head. "I don't _want_ to die."

**YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. EMBRACE IT, OR FIGHT IT; GIVE US OUR JUSTICE, OR DESPAIR AND BURN.**

She sneered. "I didn't die last time," She pointed out. "And I won't die now."

The god slowly walked up to Her. His flames were horrible, spreading out around Her, encompassing Her, searing, tearing, melting. **YOU WOULD HAVE DIED IN THE CRUCIBLE THE DAY YOU LOST YOUR CONSORT. I KEPT THEIR VICTORY FROM THEM AND SOUGHT OUT MY OWN. NOW THE END IS IN OUR GRASP. DELIVER FINALITY TO BOTH OF US, OR I WILL TAKE YOUR LIFE ALONE.**

Heather tensed, reaching out with Her senses. She became aware of Samael in the physical world. She could sense the demon looming over Her, keeping watch, protecting Her, admiring Her as she slept. She looked up in alarm at Xuchibara. "Don't take him from me," She whispered, then begged. "Samael, Alex, don't take him from me-"

**SUMMON ME.**

"My friends are in that lighthouse!" She protested. "They'd die! Everything I've ever fought to save would die!"

**I WILL PERMIT YOU THEIR EXCLUSION FROM MY WRATH.**

Heather was thrown off guard.

**DO IT.**

She stared up at the giant monster, then Her eyes lowered to the chains around one of his arms and lifted back up to his face. "Why now?" She asked.

**THERE IS TIME.**

She shook her head. "You didn't contact me yesterday, over the night, while I was sleeping. Why are you suddenly desperate now? What changed, why would you even be contacting me with two more seals...?"

The god glowered at Her, and stepped closer. **I WILL NOT-**

"He was touching me," Heather thought. "The only difference is Samael was physically touching me last night, and there wasn't any other significant change between now and then..." She look perplexed up at Xuchibara. "What difference did that make? How could he possibly protect me from you?"

**ENOUGH. MAKE YOUR DECISION.**

Her eyes widened as she recalled Samael's incredibly lucid and calm state upon waking. If that and Xuchibara's failure to make this offer one day earlier had the same cause, then... "He couldn't _protect_ me from you. He _is _you and shares your goals. He could only possibly _link_ me to you." An epiphany rippled through Her, and She stared at the monster whom She had feared for days. "You don't want to kill me," She whispered in sudden understanding. "That day I summoned the Pyramid Thing, you wrapped your tongue in my hair and then suddenly calmed down, just like Samael does. That part of him's not Alex, that's _you._"

Xuchibara reeled backwards, stumbling back from Her as if She'd struck him. **YOU-**

"You expected to kill me in the school," She started rationalizing, filling in the gaps in this narrative and looking down in thought. "You failed, but there are two more Seals, Travis is right, there's no reason for you to be bartering... The only reason you'd be talking to me is if you thought you couldn't do it. Is if you thought you'd been compromised or were somehow lacking..."

She looked up at him, sensing his mounting fury and frustration. "You want _me_ to give you an _excuse_. To make it easy for you. You want me to _tell_ you to kill me."

Sulphuric clouds hissed out from under the helm in fierce hate-filled gouts. The hellish air behind him clouded up with veins and ominous clouds. His fists clenched tightly and shook.

**I WILL NOT GIVE YOU OBLIVION,** he said, advancing on Her. **I WILL VIOLATE YOU IN EVERY CONCEIVABLE WAY. I WILL POLLUTE YOUR SOUL WITH GOUT AND ROT UNTIL YOU BLOAT AND SPILL OPEN IN TUMORS OF DECAYED CANCERS. I BURN HOLES THROUGH YOUR MIND TILL IT IS YOUR HANDS THAT ARE PULLING THE STILL-BEATING HEARTS FROM THE CHESTS OF YOUR LOVED ONES.**

Heather frowned as he continued to advance, but realized this temper tantrum signified she was _right_. There was no other reason for him to be so utterly angry. He could have simply laughed at her, or dismissed her. "You have Samael right there, but you must not feel certain you can make him do it..." She whispered, and Xuchibara seethed at Her words. "So that means _you _aren't sure _you _can make yourself do it."

**I WILL RUIN YOU UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING LEFT WORTH PRESERVING, UNTIL YOU ARE ENSLAVED TO THE BLASPHEMIES YOU DARED TO SPAWN. I WILL MAKE YOU BEG FOR SILENCE TO END THE BOUNDLESS TORMENT. I WILL DO IT WITH YOUR LOVER'S SKIN, WITH YOUR FATHER'S, WITH YOUR FRIENDS'; I WILL HURT YOU WITH EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER HELD DEAR.**

He was standing over Her, looming huge against the hellscape, muscles rolling with blood like flame beneath the flesh. Heather shook Her head in disbelief at this tirade, at how badly She seemed to have completely offended or insulted this amazing entity, and at what Her words signified. "But why? It doesn't make any sense... Why would my smell have_ any_ impact on you, much less cause you to falter?"

That was the last straw. She felt the fury before She saw it and so She was already scrambling backwards when the Smith lunged at Her. He was fast and strong, and his intention was to rip Her apart. The clouds of anger wrapped around Her and then Her vision was clouding and there was darkness everywhere. She was blind.

"Samael!" She shouted, visualizing the Seal of the Metatron on the atrium mirror and the monster She knew had to be somewhere nearby. A red hot touch descended on Her injured shoulder and squeezed. "_SAMAEL_!"

* * *

Firm and painfully tight hands were all around her and she was being yanked off the ground. The air was being crushed out of her and she flailed helplessly for a moment, panting heavily in her panic, gasping for breath.

Then the clouds in her vision began to disperse, and she looked around, trying to figure out where she was. The Lighthouse? Her eyes caught the edge of a red helm over her head. Samael was clasping her against himself. His tongue was draped down the side of her neck and looped about her collar. At the feel of it, Heather jerked reflexively to touch the black appendage, to make sure it was real.

Something about the tongue was significant.

_Heather, _the sound of her name passed like hot spring water through her mind. Her eyes rolled up and closed as she leaned her head backwards into her monster's chest. She lay there trying to get her panic under control, breathing heavily. For a moment she couldn't talk, so she just squeezed the tongue closer to her and turned her face into its length. The appendage tightened its embrace and Samael purred softly to her hair. Heather nodded and opened her eyes, looking around. The atrium clock said that it was one in the morning, and the lighthouse was dark and quiet. Samael had plucked her off the couch and was now cradling her firmly around five or six feet in the air.

"We need to go," she realized aloud, and then started to try and wiggle free of him. Samael grunted in agreement, leaning over to let her slide to her feet. She bumped her injured arm on the way down and then blinked in confusion when she felt no pain. Puzzled, she reached up and pulled back the sling and the fabric at her shoulder, trying to get a better look. She found her arm completely unblemished; Where hours ago she had sported deep violet bruises and painful lacerations, her skin was now smooth and pink. The flesh was hot though, and when Heather reached up to touch the area she felt a tingling beneath her fingers.

Samael seemed a little startled by the sight of the healing; Heather certainly was. But then he gave a quick growl and Heather nodded. No time to think about it now. She untied the sling and got it off, and then tested her arm to make sure it was functional. It was.

"We have to go," Heather told the Pyramid Monster and she looked around for her katana. It was laying on the tea table so she snatched it up and began belting it to her waist. "I have to get out there now, while he's angry; I have to let him hit me as hard as he can," she mumbled, turning around and looking for some quick supplies like a flashlight and some granola bars. She managed to find both in the kitchen

"I need to get to that Seal and prove to him whatever the hell it is I can prove, while he's throwing everything into it..." She paused and looked around for Samael, only to see that the monster was following her closely. The tongue re-entwined with her hair and she felt a comforting security in the touch that she'd never before felt. Something about it equaled _affection, _and "affection" meant Samael was still calm, still with her, still on her side.

"What do I think will happen...?" she slowed to question herself. "What do I think I'm going to learn out there...? Why would my touch or my smell or whatever calm a god down? Much less one like him? But I've had dreams about this same god ever since I got here, about the 'importance' of my touch, even before Alex-" She cut off and looked back at Samael. The tip of his tongue gently caressed her cheek and she nodded with a light shudder. "I guess we'll all find out," she agreed. "Come on."

She grasped his hand and led him quickly towards the front door. He followed obediently. But as they walked, she saw something moving in the shadows. Then suddenly the atrium lights were on. Standing in front of the doorway was Travis Grady, his arms crossed over his chest. Heather stopped short. Travis eyed her critically.

"I need to go," she said after an awkward moment. "I need to go _now_, while it's still night."

His gaze darkened, but he waited for her to explain.

"Look- I don't _know_ how to explain," she began. "But I need to get out there now. I just had a dream and I think it might have given me a clue as to what's going on and what I need to do next."

"You're sneaking out," he told her flatly.

"Look, my arm is healed!" she protested, pulling down her shirt to show him. "Travis, I _need_ to go, please don't wake them up; you know how this place is and I-I've got to go!"

"You were nightmaring," he observed. "What about?"

Heather took in a hard breath and tried to calm herself down to explain. "It was Xuchibara, he was trying to give me his usual offer: My death in exchange for destroying the cult. But he... he was more verbal than usual, and almost less _focused_, and I guess something about it triggered some really empowered lucid dreaming for me. I started questioning him and I think I might understand what I need to do next, but I have to get out there because if I don't I'll lose a sense of what he's doing and I think I might lose the chance to try and influence him–"

"Influence him?" Travis interrupted. "The god?"

"I think there might be a way to convince him to stop trying to kill me!" she exclaimed.

"What?" This was the cult God's left hand demon and executioner she was talking about, not just a psychological construct, ghost, or pet. "How?"

"By- by- This is going to sound crazy but it's true: By giving him _every opportunity to._"Travis frowned. "Travis, dammit, I don't have time to explain, I need to do this."

"Heather," he growled, conveying with one word how _out of control_ she sounded.

"Trust. Me!" Heather begged, because there was no possible way she could explain everything about the tongue or her dreams or her sudden desperate certainty that there was—for just a short while—a window for her to accomplish something unthinkable. "There is something huge going on, and I think I just hit the tip of it, and I need to go out there and figure it out before it's too late! This is not– This is not a normal part of what I was supposed to go through, this is– Travis, I _need to go_."

Travis stared at her for a very long moment, till she was practically shaking with the need to get outside. When he spoke, he didn't lift his eyes from her. "Alex?" he asked. The Pyramid Monster nearly jumped in surprise and then looked down at him and made a rough attentive noise. "You'll get her back here safely?" The monster responded immediately with a low, hard, affirmative hum. Travis nodded and unfolded his arms. He turned to the side and then picked up a small pack from where it was leaning against the wall. He lifted it up and tossed it to her. Heather caught it and blinked, looking inside. Then she lifted her eyes back to Travis. He'd already expected she might run out on them?

"I-" she hesitated. "I wouldn't be bailing on everyone if this hasn't happened," she explained. "I know you're all planning to help me from afar. I won't try to stop you, but- Travis, I-"

"Kid?" He looked into her face. "Do what you gotta do. I and Harry both walked into this mess and sided with the people instead of figuring out the truth, and I and Harry both nearly got Alessa vaporized and the god born. And you? One of your first real decisions was that the people were untrustworthy and that the faceless Boogieman might be leading you in the right direction to finish things."

Heather shuddered, not sure what to say. Travis regarded her for a moment and then stepped forward and reached up to take off his cap. He turned it around and plopped it on her head.

"Go and figure it out," he told her. "And when you come back, no matter what the truth is, no matter how crazy it sounds, we'll stand behind you, because we love you."

Heather stared at him, lips parted, for a short moment. Then she swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."

"Go," he told her. "There's a pack made up for you leaning against the door. Your pistol's in there, and some first aid supplies in it. Quickly, before you wake up Douglass in the other room."

She nodded and reached behind her again, grabbing Samael's hand. The monster followed her swiftly out the front door, pausing only to retrieve his massive knife from where he'd left it as she thrust her flashlight and granola bars into the pack. Then the two of them disappeared down the Lighthouse staircase and headed straight out into the moaning hellscape beyond.

When she and the monster were out of earshot Walter Sullivan walked up beside Travis and scowled at the man. "That was exactly the opposite of keeping a close eye on Xuchibara," he disapproved.

"She wanted to talk to you," Travis said, ignoring the comment.

Walter looked out at where he felt the Red Hate and heard the scrape of the Great Knife. "No," he decided. "I would have held her back and counseled escape. She wants to hear insanity is possible. Maybe for her, it is. But then I've nothing to say."

Travis glanced at the dead man. "Have you decided who to root for yet?"

Walter looked at him and tilted his head to the side, slightly intrigued by the question. "I am always on mother's side," he answered a little ominously.

Travis grunted; that was a pretty standard answer from Walter. "Then I hope she's supportive when you bring home your new girlfriend to meet her."

Sullivan jumped a little and gave Travis a quizzical look. No longer able to see Heather, Travis righted himself from where he was leaning against the door frame and moved to head back inside. He paused though, and gave Walter a pitying look.

"When paradise comes," Walter told him, "your eyes will all be opened, and you will understand, and you will weep for joy at the sight of the Mother."

"You can't even figure out why Laura Sunderland has two nice words to say to you," Travis told him. "The hell do you know about joy?"

Walters eyes narrowed. "Soon we'll all know," he said cryptically.

"I _already _know. You think happiness is something you need a god to hand to you? That it's like some endless opium high?" He pointed out towards hell. "Joy is when she walks back through this door alive and safe. And that's it. That's the highest form there is."

Then without another word Travis Grady headed inside.


	57. Enroute to Destiny

After Heather, it would be fair to say the person most at the heart of the survivor group was likely Travis. He was the eldest core survivor, quiet and introspective, and they trusted him to act wisely, decisively, and with good moral character. There was no one in the party truly qualified to glare at Travis Grady. Except, somehow, Eileen Townshend.

And oh did she glare. She glared so tremendously, and with such power, that quite a number of men who were not currently being glared at nevertheless gave her a wide berth. Eileen was one of the few successful mothers Silent Hill had ever encountered, and somehow that seemed to give her otherworldly abilities.

"Please, Mr. Grady. Elucidate your reasoning process. O_ne. Last. Time._"

Travis looked to be just a little frightened of the slight woman. That fear (or respect) made him eschew his usual laconic style of speech and use more words than he ordinarily might have: "She woke up from a nightmare yelling 'Samael.' After he gathered her up and she calmed herself down, she became convinced she needed to get out of the house and to the next Seal immediately. When I confronted her and tried to stop her she said the demon's god had been taunting her and she had an opening to get something big done."

"And she couldn't articulate it better than that?" Eileen asked for clarity.

Travis didn't answer because he'd never met a psychic, witch, or conjurer who could give him a straight answer on anything; but he doubted that would satisfy Eileen Townshend.

"I see," she said quietly, and her voice was like drowning in a bucket of ice. "Well then," she composed herself, and looked around at the others. "I suppose we better head out on these little 'errands' of ours and make some nice distractions for her."

Travis grunted affirmatively and moved to grab his own packs, and Eileen fixed him with a look that could kill a lesser man. Travis went still, hesitating. Was this going to involve another cleaver?

"If she dies, Travis, what do you think we'll see first?" Eileen asked conversationally as she approached the trucker. "Will Kaufmann disappear? The Lighthouse? Will the earth start trembling and fire rain from the skies?"

He hesitated. Kaufmann cleared his throat as if to explain exactly what would happen, and Douglass grabbed him and covered his mouth to save his life. Walter watched the whole scene incredulously.

"I don't know," Travis said slowly, not sure what Eileen was fishing for.

"Well, you better find out," Eileen told him. "If you start seeing the signs, a plague of locusts, raining frogs, you might want to start running. 'Cause if I catch you before the world ends, I'm feeding you your own genitals."

Travis looked her square in the face and, without blinking, said: "If she dies? I'll eat them."

The two stared each other down for a long time before Eileen finally nodded, satisfied, and went back to packing up her things for the day trip. The party finally started breathing again.

"We've hours before the sun's up," Laura said slowly, hoping not to set off a bomb; but to be honest she was very sleepy.

"Then we've got a little time to plan," James observed. "Which task is first?"

* * *

If there was one location where Alessa's memories came unbidden, it was Alchemilla hospital.

Heather could see the building had changed over the last few decades. Whole wings had been added or undergone extensive renovations to make way for modern technology. The windows had been changed, and the inside had been remodeled. The building was friendlier and had more color to it. That didn't change the oppressive feeling Heather felt weighing down in the pit of her stomach as she looked up at it.

Samael growled softy to her. He was crouched over her and had dragged his blade partially around her. The hellscape monsters were whipped up into a frothing rage about them. Hounds barked and snarled in large numbers, kept at bay only by their fear of the Executioner; and baby-faced spider-dolls tottered about giggling and spurting the occasional mane of fire.

_Angry,_ he observed as he dipped his tongue into her hair, and Heather nodded her agreement.

"That's an understatement. It looks like it's raining fire a few streets over." The sky was an ugly red, and though fog and rain obscured her vision, she was pretty sure it was raining small meteors or something of that nature. He grunted and she lifted up a hand to complement his 'affection' by stroking the edge of his helm. This little touch ritual was getting to be almost therapeutic. "Are you going to be alright waiting for me out here?" she asked, unable to veil the concern in her voice. She didn't want to leave him behind; she might not come back to the same monster.

_Accompanying._

Heather blinked at him. (He swung his helmet left, then right, making sure each and every monster knew he was glaring at_ them_.) "You're coming inside with me?" she asked.

Samael nodded.

Heather smirked, feeling grateful. "I hope you know that giant knife of yours is going to be pretty useless in small spaces," she teased as she started walking forward again. Her monster gave a snort and dragged his shrieking blade behind him. The high-pitched blade-shrieks made their harriers give him an even wider berth.

"Samael, I've got a question. But I don't want to upset you or get in a fight, so let me know if I'm heading down a bad conversational path so I can backtrack..." Heather began, only to be distracted as she reached the front doors of the hospital. They were locked, but they were modern and therefore almost entirely glass. She planned to break the panes with her wrench but stopped when Samael grunted expectantly. She glanced back over her shoulder and then stepped aside to let him through. "After you."

Samael slogged up to the door, regarded it for a moment, and then leaned sideways into it with the corner of his helm. He rocked his weight into the structure and the glass shattered. Heather kicked in some big low-lying shards, and then stepped carefully through. Her monster attempted to do likewise but became stuck partway through the door. At first he struggled to get his butt through, and then it became apparent he might never fit his helm. He paused there, looking almost sheepish. Finally, he gave a forceful wiggle that bowed out the frame of the door and released him into the room.

"Fatty," she teased, with a wink, and began to walk. The Pyramid Monster followed. "I wanted to ask you; do you have any idea why the Red God likes my hair?"

A low growl rippled up from behind her, one that had nothing to do with 'fatty' and warned her to be careful; Heather felt an ominous tremor of heat in her bones.

She kept walking. "Why do _you_ like my hair?" she asked, hoping that was safer. There was probably no worse time to make Samael angry with her than while she was deliberately provoking Xuchibara. Somehow, the god and monster were on different wavelengths, even despite being intimately connected, and that must have _meant something. _

As she walked, Heather felt a tickle at the hood of her jacket and against the wisps of hair at the back of her head. Samael mumbled, frustrated that she was just out of reach; it was hard for him to stay in contact while she was walking. When she paused for him to catch up, his tongue sank into her hair, and he hummed to himself, pleased.

Heather tilted her head back to look at him. "Do you not know?"

Her monster wasn't particularly interested in using words, and she wasn't expecting very enlightening answers; but the past days had proven the two of them could communicate, so she waited for a response. After his tongue combed through her hair and coiled about her chin for a few moments, he tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

_Familiar_, he did eventually tell her.

Then they heard a something moving in the hospital; his helm turned and Heather looked just as sharply; the atrium and dark hallways loomed ominously in front of them, empty and desolate, papers and wheelchairs left here and there not as if they had been abandoned, but as if the entire town's population had suddenly vanished mid-motion.

Heather stepped forward, her katana at ready. She'd secured her under-the-shoulder flashlight just before leaving the Lighthouse perimeter, freeing up both hands for the sword; but the issue with mounting flashlight on your person was you had to swivel your whole body in the direction you wanted illuminated, sometimes putting you off-balance for an attack.

She moved slowly.

As she made her way forward, she heard a loud metallic clang, followed by the sharp clack of stiletto heels on tile. "Ah," Heather acknowledged the familiar sound just before two nurses staggered stiff and awkward down the front hallway, their bones making awkward crunching noises as they moved.

As one came into the light of her flashlight it paused and looked around in fevered excitement. It stood there for a moment, pigeon-toed with its tiny waist bent at an awkward angle to lift up its butt and thrust out its overflowing breasts. Its face was melted and bandaged, and straight blonde hair fell in curtains around its shoulders. It was the most ridiculously over-sexualized thing Heather had ever seen– so much so that she laughed.

Excited now not only by light but by sound, the nurses staggered forward, lunging at the air and whipping their scalpels, their bones and joints crackling in distressing ways. Heather was midmotion through drawing back her katana when she suddenly heard Samael _coo, _and then a BANG that could scare the soul out of a person when the Great Knife dropped to the ground behind him. Before she could even register what was really happening, the giant Demon had surged past her and was grabbing delightedly at those flailing scalpel-wielding female shapes.

Heather's eyes widened, because she absolutely did not want to know what it was Samael intended to do with those nurses.

_"ALEX!"_

* * *

The heavens and hells were anything but stable in that moment, Sergei thought.

He could feel the burning anger of the Executioner; it ran hot through his blood, demanding action, demanding sacrifice. The icy bitterness of Metatron's temper made for two sides of one violent tempest.

Despite the maelstrom in the heavens, Sergei remained calm. He stood quietly, guarding Edwin as the Priest engaged in his meditations. On one hand, the post was almost demeaning to him and to his position as the patriarch of the Sect of Valtiel. On the other, given the long history of infighting among the sects, it was actually quite an honor that Edwin trusted him as a protector when he was most vulnerable.

Edwin was still deep within his divination, searching for solutions to the problem of Heather Mason. Based on the sour expression that had graced his usually serene features, something was wrong.

Sergei took a slow breath, lowering his head and letting the long Red hood temporarily block out his vision. _Now is not a good time for complications, _he thought. _Is it the Witch, her allies, or...? Now is an even worse time for disunity._

Sergei had an ugly feeling the problem was again disunity.

He lifted his head a little again. _Disunity!_ With the gods in a terrible state of temper, and his demonic patron hungering for blood, the Faithful needed every mind working in unison for their Goddess, or risk dire tragedy. Xuchibara had already demonstrated his personal interest in Alessa's fate; and with those bodies still warm in their graves, Sergei would prefer not to witness another demonstration amidst the many lives he was responsible for.

Still, while the demon was terrible, he wasn't the worst of Sergei's concerns. Demons were demons; they had always hated humanity, and humanity had always taken steps to pacify, hide from, or protect themselves from demons. The Sect of Valtiel knew this relationship better than any: They were the mortal arm of Justice and tracked down the hated sinful to feed Xuchilbrara's hunger; they took steps to understand and avoid his wrath; and, in so doing, they carefully harnessed his strength.

So, _no_, it was not Xuchibara's sudden rage that had Sergei most concerned. It was Lobsel-Vith's anger that confused and disheartened him. Sergei knew the Metatron was angry, like a cold bead at the edge of his mind. He wish he knew _why_, or how to appease the god. He wished he had additional elders to consult, but it seemed most of the clergy could not hear, or else dismissed, Valtiel's malcontent. 

Regrettably, Sergei was now patriarch of his sect _for a reason._ And while half of that promotion had to do with Alex Shepherd shooting his predecessor, the rest was a result of his sensitivity to the divine.

It was highly unusual for Valtiel to _ever_ turn his face away from his followers; while he could appear aloof, judgmental, and stern to outsiders, to his chosen few he was truly an involved and nurturing guide. Valtiel was their beacon and their shield. To be left suddenly alone with the now overwhelming and burning destructive rage of the Red God... _that_ was terrifying. It urged Sergei to act, to sate the only deity that seemed to be listening to him, to earn a reprieve from the Wrath.

Now was a terrible time for disunity.

* * *

"No. You can't touch them."

_But-_

"I don't even want to hear it," Heather said definitively, stepping over the bisected body of a nurse.

Samael whined in disappointment, dragging the massive Great Knife along behind them. He paused as they noticed one of the bodies was still wriggling. The nurse was crawling after them, her assets (and everything in those assets) literally spilling out the front of her damaged blouse. Heather made a face, gripped her katana, and pass the sword threw the air in an arc. The nurse's head left her shoulders and went flying up a few inches into the air. It was a splendid descending cut which any swordsmanship instructor would have been quite proud of. Samael merely grumbled. 

"I hope you're bored out of your mind while I'm solving puzzles," Heather sassed him, and then snorted at herself when a split second later they were both already _in_ one. "Oh look: See the door ahead of us? It's blocked with a gurney on the other side, see?" Samael came up beside her, and did seem to look. "An now the only way out of this room is that key-coded door on the left. We-"

Samael walked past her. He moved straight up to the door, and then with a huge overhanded top he bisected it and crumpled the gurney with his knife. When he went to withdraw the knife, it had clearly become embedded in the gurney. He grumbled, and growled, and tried to lever the blade free. When it didn't come loose he snarled and then unsteadily tried to lift up a foot to brace against the gurney. Footwork was not Samael's best skill. The helmet careened wildly and scraped against the walls on either side.

Heather came up beside him, arms crossed, and looked up at him with a 'see what you did now?' sort of expression. Samael noticed and huffed at her, then wiggled his knife and made plaintive growling noises. Heather was quiet for a moment, watching his helm as he struggled.

"Do you need help yet?" she asked.

He looked at her over her shoulder and his tongue coiled displeased through the air. He gave another yank.

Heather let a moment of vain struggling pass. "How about now?" she prompted.

He gave a displeased hiss and then released the handle and looked down at her grumpily.

"It's all a matter of leverage," she told him sagely. "Observe..."

* * *

Edwin breathed in deeply, coming out of his meditation and looking around with a sad scowl. As the High Priest of the Sect of the Holy Woman stood, Sergei lifted his gaze to his face. "You have learned something?" the executioner asked.

"Patricia," Edwin sighed. "She's blocking me. I could overcome her blocking efforts with brute force, but I fear that would probably kill her. As foolish as she might be, she is a high priestess of our faith. Better to let her _try_ whatever scheme it is she's cooked up than to waste all of our resources trying to control her out of pride. Perhaps I should even go and assist her..."

Sergei shook his head. "She should not be out. Not now. This disunity puts us all at risk."

Edwin looked at Sergei and was quiet for a moment. "She believes she is doing the right thing to help the faithful. If you truly believed I was pursuing the wrong path, would you not leave my side and carry out the will of the Executioners?"

Sergei tilted his head to the side. "My patrons are to be feared, obeyed, and respected," he told Edwin. "But they guide a man to his own internal truths, and his sin before God, and nothing more; they are past-centric. When it comes to setting larger visions, for Paradise, for the Faithful, for God: I follow where _you_ lead."

"Do you, patron of the Justice god, believe Patricia a lost cause?" Edwin asked him.

Sergei took in a slow breath and lowered his gaze slightly. "The demon is hungry," he said ominously.

Edwin looked off at nothing. "She visited our stores of ritual components before she left. She took most of our amulets of Aglaophotis. She left well-prepared for the dangers."

Sergei looked back up at his leader. "Can an amulet make a woman humble?" he asked. "Do not go after her. She is going to make a very big mistake. She is going to forget that _we_ are not in control. Listen to me and weight these words: The demon is hungry."

Edwin was quiet a moment longer. Then he lifted a hand and clasped Sergei's shoulder firmly, and nodded his thanks. "We must assume Heather Mason lives, and that the demon is still accompanying her. For the safety of the Faithful, we must also assume that Patricia will not be able to defeat her, and that the demon will endure. 

"Now, you and I know no conjurer can summon the Red God's avatars knowingly without paying a steep price and securing a deadly service. Alessa must have paid in _something. _In my divination, I've realized the slaughter in our chapel might be a pittance next to what Alessa plans."

Sergei looked at him in surprise.

"If your assessment of the demon is to be believed, and if what my divinations have uncovered is to believed, then we may all be in very grave danger. The Red God may have his sights set on us, on Justice for our _failures. _Originally, I was going to spend our resources on sabotaging Alessa's allies and securing hostages. But now I think we may need to leave that for the time being. Come, we need to address these concerns swiftly, and I want your_ help_ in planning."

* * *

Heather frowned. She and Samael had just climbed up the staircase, as the spacious new hospital elevator was predictably not currently in service.

Splayed out in front of her was a fresh human corpse. The man or woman was wearing a gas mask and heavy outer clothing. Based on the injuries, he or she had been filleted by one of the nurses.

Heather nudge the corpse with her foot, but it was in the throes of rigor mortis. She wagered it was male. A smear of blood suggested he had reached the doorway headed out of the room, but something had dragged him back inside to kill him. It looked as though he might have been dead for less than a day. And that? That made her nervous.

"Uh, this is a cultist," Heather whispered. Her demon, who still heaving himself up the last few steps, looked startled for a moment before giving a low growl. Heather privately agreed: Cultists were more dangerous to her present aims than any monster could be. 

She looked around for more clues as to what had happened here and found that the cultist had lost a rifle near the doorway. She picked it up and checked to see if it was loaded; it wasn't, he had spent every bullet.

"Why is he here?" she wondered aloud. "Did they guess I'd come here and try to set up some kind of trap for me? Are there more? Was this guy just stuck inside when they cleared out for the night, or did they expect to hole up someplace inside the hospital, away from the night air?"

Samael came up behind her and very carefully stepped on the cultist's head. She didn't notice until she heard a crackling noise like someone squishing a pumpkin, Heather turned around just in time to see the man's head cave into a grotesque splatter.

"Holy fuck!" she cried out at first. "_Alex_," she complained. "That was disgusting and unnecessary." Samael growled down at the corpse, sniffing the air several times. Grimacing, Heather walked some distance away from him, trying to steal a glance down different hallways. An unfamiliar set of doors was set down the right-hand corner; a new room Heather didn't remember, and which had likely been added on to the building since Alessa's childhood. 

Samael was still eyeing the cultist's broken corpse when he heard Heather's voice come from surprisingly far away. "This is new," she murmured. Startled, he surged down the hallway after her, and when he arrived he immediately made contact with her to taste and smell her.

Something was awry. _Multiple_ things were awry. He could feel it in the air, a sense of discordance. He followed her closely as she made up her mind and pressed her way into the new hospital room.

Heather's flashlight illuminated neatly arranged surgical equipment, plastic-covered monitoring machines, and the various sinks and bottles of chemicals that were used to maintain a sterile work environment. She angled the flashlight up a few degrees, and a grimace worked its way across her face as she twisted about to view the high ceiling. "This is an operating theater. It wasn't here before. They must have remodeled to put it in."

Some of the windows in the top of the theater had been broken through, but there were no visible monsters. Lowering down from the windows, Heather took better stock of the theatre. There was an operating table at the center, with a black body bag laid out over it. The sight of it made her stomach churn slightly, because it was obvious what it symbolized. The smell in the room, the artful layout of the tools; these stimuli were all to 'help' her remember.

Enough: There had to be something in here for her to find, so she stepped further into the room and tried to ignore the stench of death.

Samael cast his 'gaze' around and then snorted loudly and gave a big twitch or shudder and shook the helm back and forth rapidly a few quick times. Heather glanced back at him and wondered at whether he seemed unusually agitated. Then she turned her light back to the room. There was a changing screen not far from where she was standing, and something had waddled out from behind it; her flashlight landed on the mottled green skin of a pot-bellied and burnt Lying Figure. The monster writhed and trembled, its sagging mouth opened, and then it began to vomit, viscous acid gurgling down its chin and spraying out around it, sizzling as it came into contact with the floors and walls.

"Shit-" Heather muttered. She heard screams above her and looked up to see Amputee-Saw Spiderlings scuttling in through the theatre windows and climbing down the walls. At the rear of the room, where Heather and her monster had entered, the operating doors slammed shut, the locks clicked into place, and there was a terrible clatter of steel beams or pipes as _something_ fell down to barricade it close.

Samael had regained his senses, thrown off his agitated, and started moving towards her when high above their heads, suspended in the middle of the room, a massive light fixture flickered to life. Then Heather heard the clatter of stiletto heels, as all around them nurses slowly stumbled to their feet from behind machines and privacy screens, and waddled curiously forward.

"Try and get their attention!" she shouted to Samael, who roared in answer. Then the Lying Figure was lunging at her, and Heather needed to dodge an uncoordinated splurt of projectile vomit as she rolled through a patch of nurses, dodging their pipes and scalpels and slinging her katana edge through their ridiculously out-of-proportion bodies.

The Lying Figure followed uncoordinatedly, its gut wiggling, an acidic froth working up about its mouth.

Heather ducked under the swipe of one of the stiff-legged nurses and then grabbed the stupid creature by the edge of its 'uniform' and dragged it in front of her as a shield. The Lying Figure contorted and spat up an enormous quantity of vomit, covering the nurse's chest and face in a layer of thick green mucous. The nurse was surprised, then began flailing and shaking and screaming uncontrollably as her bones and skin caved in and crumpled into fizzled mush at Heather's feet.

Great. Just great! This was going to be so much fun.


	58. Enter Alex Shepherd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fufufufu.

Things were not going in Heather's favor.

The vomit-spewing Lying Figure did not walk particularly well, but it could twist about to face her no matter how she tried to approach it. She also didn't want to risk destroying her katana by passing it through all that vomit. That meant she had to keep her distance from the thing and occasionally dodge mouthfuls of projectile vomit, all while cutting a path through the nurses. Only when she'd made enough space to breath in could she draw her pistol. 

When she brought it to bare she pointed the barrel straight up at the Lying Figure's face and squeezed the trigger. Bam.

The bullet slammed into the monster's head, sending acidic green blood flying through the air along with a shrapnel of bone, brains, and flesh. The monster staggered. Heather took in a prematurely relieved breath.

Then a huge pustule of acid and bile bloomed up where the bullet had struck. The pustule swelled up larger and larger, and when it finally popped and sent a splatter of acid flying in all directions, Heather could see the monster's flesh and bone had reformed beneath it. It had a fully formed head again.

"You've got to be shitting me," she muttered, adjusting Travis's cap where it perched on her head. The Lying Figure stumbled towards her again. Heather fled around the room, drawing her katana through a nurse as she went.

_Maybe I can pin it down._ _ If I can trap it in place, even temporarily, I can buy time to figure out what to do with it._

Her attention flicked to the massive light fixture illuminating the operating theater. _Or I could try crushing it to death._

She did try. She pointed the handgun up at the light fixture and let off a few rounds. The loud banging sent some more nurses her way, but, though the light fixture wobbled, it did not fall.

_Okay. Fine._ She needed to fix this on her own. If she didn't _die_ to the Lying Figure, Samael would eventually come to her rescue only to get his arms burnt off, because he wasn't particularly bright. It wasn't as if she could expect him to read her mind, or obey complex tactical instructions. 

Wait.

Heather had a sudden unprovoked flashback to the first time she'd knowingly used her abilities on a monster of Silent Hill: When Alex Shepherd had coaxed her into taking control of a hoard of Sack Babies. She remembered her telepathic conversations with Walter, and her 'scolding' of Alex's original Boogieman, long ago, when she and Alex had been rescuing Elle.

"Sa-" Heather called out, only to break off mid-word and recoil as a Amputee-Saw-Spiderling leaped straight for her face. She barely got the blade of her katana up in time, slashing across the belly of the monster and sending it careening into a nearby nurse. _Samael!_

Heather heard the demon roar in answer, and the fact that he'd 'heard' her filled her with courage. She shot an oncoming nurse point blank in the face and then turned her weapon on the Lying Figure and fired. The bullet hit it, buried deep into its flesh, and then caused a small fountain of acidic green blood. Just like last time it began to regenerate rapidly; she'd only bought herself thirty seconds of thought. 

Heather looked at her Pyramid Monster, where nurses where slashing at his midsection and saw-armed Spiderlings were grinding vainly at his helm. She focused her attention first on him and then on one of the Spiderlings as it hunkered down against an opposite wall and began a leap towards him. For a moment she could feel Samael's bloodlusted anger, his strength, his attention to the monsters around him. She felt a strange stretch of perspective as he became aware of the jumping monster.

_Catch it out of the air._

Heather edged around the reforming Lying Figure and then dashed for the center of the operating room, where a black body bag was still draped over the table. She felt Samael twist towards the Spiderling mid-leap; his empty hand extended and latching down on the monster's outstretched limb. Heather heard the Lying Figure, vomiting and stumbling after her. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, where the light fixture was listing slightly. This time, she didn't even have to think with words.

Heather could feel Samael flex, could feel the power of his arms and the shift in his attention. With a fluid turn he spun about and hurled the captured Spiderling up towards the light. The Amputee-Saw monster flailed helplessly as it tumbled through the air. Then the air was filled with the sputter of tearing electrical lines, electrocution, and the groan of tearing metal.

The giant lights strobed rapidly, careened with an audible swoosh. Heather cursed, holding on to her hat and vaulting over the operating table. She rolled straight to the ground in an attempt to get out of the way. The Lying Figure stumbled after her, acid spittle gushing up its throat, its stomach convulsing excitedly. Then the lights detached from the ceiling and hit down hard on the operating table, shooting out a shrapnel of glass. The lights had looked big even up on the ceiling; up close, it became clear they were the size of an automobile. And when it _bounced_ off the operating table and into the Lying Figure, the weight rolled the monster's body flat into the ground and splattered its acidic burden out beneath it.

Heather grimaced, staggering to her feet and brushing a dust of glass out of her hair. Samael roared, battering aside another Spiderling and tearing a final nurse free from his helmet and sending her flying hard into a wall where several important pieces of her skeletal structure crumpled. 

The remaining rotary saw Spiderlings were fleeing the room through every breach. Finally! Were they in the clear, then? Had everything else died or at least fled when the lights came down? The Lying Figure did not appear to be moving or regenerating, and she assumed the impact had killed it.

Samael growled menacingly, pacing a few steps to the left and right. Then his helmet tip jerked towards Heather and he rumbled softly.

"I'm okay-" Heather began, but paused when she noticed something else had fallen down with the light fixture. "Huh."

* * *

Standing tall and upright on the operating table where the fixture had originally fallen, embedded in the heavily squished and glass-filled body bag, was a massive spear. The weapon must have been Samael's height, with the shaft slightly too large and thick for any normal sized human to comfortably hold. It had been crafted of a bold mahogany, and a bright red sash was tied about its length. Samael saw it too. He straightened slightly at the sight of it, and then licked the air uncertainly.

"Is that an executioner's spear?" Heather asked, trying to catch her breath and tilting up Travis's cap to wipe her brow. She was fairly certain it _must_ be an executioner's spear; in SIlent Hill, there would have been more ambiguity to a headsman's axe than to a spear. "For you? I didn't realize Silent Hill had started leaving _monsters_ supplies, too..."

Samael looked around to make sure nothing else was about to ambush them. Then he slowly approached the embedded spear and reached out to grasp the haft. With a flex he pulled the weapon free, and held the tip aloft for his inspection.

"So then what are you supposed to kill?" Heather wondered darkly.

Her monster shook his head slightly, uncertain. He set the butt of the spear down and leaned on the weapon like a walking stick, his other hand still clutching the handle of his knife. His confusion made her curious.

"Not me, then?"

Samael made a reassuring 'negative' sound, and used his new walking stick to come up beside her. His tongue touched her hair and caressed over the side of her face. Slowly, a sense of understanding and purpose began to bloom in him, a sensation Heather felt _emanating _from him.

They both heard muffled footsteps outside the front of the operating room, and then the creaking and groans of old rusted metal as someone pushed aside whatever was blocking the double doors. Samael turned slowly, fixing his gaze on the door and withdrawing his tongue. Heather felt little waves of a strangely dark mood waft out from him.

"What?" she asked and looked puzzled at the door. "Is it a cultist?" she asked as she heard the locks opening.

Samael did not answer.

A man pushed open the doors, gray eyes hopeful.

A horrified and delighted shock burst through Heather Mason's gut, and her face barely registered her disbelief. The man's gaze darted to her.

"Heather," he breathed out.

"Alex?" her voice cracked.

* * *

She had nearly crossed the room before she'd consciously felt her legs moving. Alex Shepherd—alive and unharmed—pushed the door open further, stepping quickly inside in his haste to get to her. They reached each other. He buried her in a hug and they were embracing so tightly Heather almost expected bruises. "Y-you-!" she stammered inarticulately.

"I'm here," he muttered into her hair, his eyes closing in relief. "God, I finally found you... Heath, I've got you."

Heather tried to say something, but all that came out was a sob.

Far behind her, lost in the shadows of the improperly lit operating theatre, Samael was quiet. He listened to the sounds of Heather's voice; he felt her shock, her awe, her pain. He did not need to taste the air to see the newcomer; he held still with his tongue retracted so as not to draw attention to himself, and kept his instincts at bay for just a moment longer.

"Alex," Heather managed. "Alex, how are you here...?"

"I woke up here," her boyfriend told her, opening his eyes. "I've been looking for you since. I thought that you might be..." he shuddered and squeezed her tightly; whatever he'd envisioned, it hadn't come to pass.

Samael took in a slow and quiet breath, his instincts gently eclipsing his affection. He still made no sound, but he lifted the spear up and slowly twirled it, reorienting the weapon so that the tip pointed outwards. Alex caught the motion and realized for the first time exactly what had been standing near Heather Mason. His eyes widened in horror.

An instant later he'd pushed Heather to the side and grabbed the pistol from her hip. He pointed the weapon straight at the Pyramid Monster and, without hesitation, he fired.

Heather cried out in surprise at the sound of the gunshot, then grabbed Alex's arm to try and stop him. He held firm and fired again, and this time she registered the metallic bang as the projectile slammed into Samael's helm. "Wait!" she exclaimed over the din, forcing Alex's arm down and twisting about to look at Samael. Alex looked at her in gray-faced alarm, images of his father's 'execution' likely passing before his eyes.

"Heather-" he gasped, glancing between her and the red-helmed monster. "Heather, that thing-!"

Samael had flinched slightly at each gunshot, but in general he hadn't moved. As she focused on him, Heather felt a dark portent clouding up through her bones.

"He's mine," she tried to reassure Alex, but then she frowned uncertainly when Samael dragged his great knife upright and pressed the tip downward into the floor to lodge it there. "The Pyramid Monster has been traveling with me. Samael?" she pleaded. Something was wrong. Something was wrong and, deep down, Heather was terrified she already knew what it might be.

"Alright," Alex choked. "But then why do I get the sensation he has a problem with _me?_"

"He didn't have a problem with the others..."

Samael stepped fluidly towards them, which, in its coordination alone, indicated something was _wrong_. Alex backed away Heather was tugged along as the demon closed the gap between them.

What was _wrong?_ She didn't feel any of the usual anger coming from the demon, just a cold certainty. "Samael-" Heather protested, but he wasn't slowing. "Shit." She grabbed at Alex's sleeve and tried to shove him behind herself. "Run, Alex."

Alex looked at her in disbelief, not because he didn't _want _to run, but because the way she was putting herself between him and the Pyramid head seemed to indicate she didn't intend on _following._ Whatever was currently going through the Pyramid Monster's head was clearly homicidal. Maybe it was jealousy? It didn't have to be jealousy. It was well within any man's right to fear his girlfriend's physical proximity to giant spear wielding demons with queer fixations on undead nurses. He was _absolutely_ not turning around to run and leave her there.

"Heather," Alex ordered and grabbed her shoulder, "move your ass!" Then he realized he'd made a terrible underestimation: He had never seen a Pyramid Monster drop its sword and pick up the spear, and now the giant creature was approaching much faster than he'd realized was possible.

Heather swore and stiff-armed Alex back behind her as Samael reached out to grab _her_ and haul her forward. Alex shouted her name and she was caught between yelling for Samael to back down and Alex to run.

"The demon's not after me!" she articulated, grabbing frantically at her Pyramid Monster's skirt and arm to try and distract or slow him. "He won't hurt me!" She wasn't a hundred percent sure about that last part, and even just saying so aloud tended to make Xuchilbara grumpy; and, after all, Samael had just been equipped with an executioner spear and grabbed straight for her, and he was technically the creation of an extremely hostile demon; but, Heather reasoned, his grip was firm but gentle, and _none _of Xuchilbara's anger was flowing out from him right now.

She tried to sound certain.

Alex must have picked up on her lingering fear of Xuchibara. "Heather!" he hissed, raising the gun up again and bracing it on his forearm because he refused to abandon her.

"Run, you idiot!"

"I'm not going to just-"

Heather felt a quiet rush of energy from beside her. She recognized this was the prelude to an attack. She spun and threw herself around Samael's spear arm, and dropped her weight to the ground. Samael _definitely_ wasn't looking at her; his target was Alex and he was merely trying to get Heather out of the way. He shook his spear once to try and dislodge her, and he was so strong it was like getting thrown around by a failing elevator. 

"Run!" she shouted in warning, praying he wouldn't misread her panic as a call for help. "ALEX!"

Samael slashed out. Alex tried to duck. The spear tore across the man's shoulder, tearing open his jacket and drawing blood. But at the sound of Alex Shepherd's name, Heather felt her Pyramid Monster's cold hate temporarily falter. Samael stumbled and botched his follow up strike; Alex hit the ground and winced, scrambling out of the way. Samael didn't pursue, staring quietly. Alex lifted up his gun again; Then, realizing there was no way he could hurt the monster with Heather still physically in between them, the man cursed and tried to get back to his feet.

Heather was panicking. Her fingernails were embedded in her monster's skin. "Get back!" she called. "He won't hurt me, get back, Alex!" That word, that _name_ seemed to hover in the air for a moment. Then Heather saw the red helmet lower into her vision. He _wanted _her attention. She looked terrified upward to meet Samael's quiet 'gaze'.

Alex.

Samael was still responding to her when she used Alex's name. Behind the helm she imagined a heterochromatic eye watching her, and her lips parted in horror. For the first time, her old fears and her friend's concerns were actually real. This monster _was not_ Alex Shepherd, and she might have made a huge psychological blunder by assigning him even the tiniest part of the man's identity.

"You're not him," she told the monster. "You aren't him, you aren't Alex, you will never be-'

_'Acknowledged,__'_ her monster thought at her, in a tone of pity she could scarcely believe was possible. _'But is he? '_

The question shook Heather to her bones. She looked back at Alex. He had retreated a few steps and was clutching his injured shoulder, his wide multicolored eyes focused on her. He was breathing heavily and she could tell he was partially lost in traumatic memories. She stared him in the eyes, drawing in the face of the man whom she'd inadvertently killed, memorizing his features.

_"Run,"_ she whispered.

Samael lifted his head and then drew up the tip of the spear and stepped forward, an ominous metallic rumble oozing out from his hood.

"Run!" she begged.

This time Alex obeyed, fleeing rapidly backwards and shooting at the oncoming monster's helm. Realizing she was in danger, Samael hoisted Heather up and behind himself. He tossed her gently back into the operating room and then lunged forward towards his quarry.

_"RUN!"_

* * *

Alex wasn't sure whether Boogiemen could even be killed; his own had never attacked him and he'd never exactly gotten to talk shop with James Sunderland or Travis Grady about their similar-looking demons.

He considered the best possibility might be to shoot the chest while the helm was lifted or turned to either side, or to shoot out one of the thighs and then simply outrun it. The first option would have to do; he didn't want to leave it there, hamstrung or otherwise, with Heather trapped behind it. 

So Alex started unloading the pistol clip into the thing's chest as he decided what to do.

Unfortunately, when the monster swiftly powered through the shots and headed _straight for him,_ Alex realized he was still making a big mistake: He was _still _underestimating how much more agile the Boogieman was while holding a spear instead of the great knife. The first slash of the spear tip made him stumble, and the second tore open the dryway just beside his head.

"Shit!" he hissed.

The spear shot up sparks as it nicked a metal door frame. Alex kept dodging and squeezed off another few ineffectual shots, this time aiming at the thigh. _Not working. Jesus, I've never seen them move so fast._

Between the rapidly spinning spear and the monster's long strides, Alex didn't seem to be able to keep his distance. He was avoiding the strikes by inches. The monster lunged and stabbed downward at him; Alex cursed and rolled to the right. When he'd regained his feet he saw he had the Hospital elevator and also the staircase directly behind himself. Perfect. He might just possibly be able to outdistance the top heavy monster on uneven ground.

The Red Helmeted monster saw him and likely guessed his intention. Heather was stumbling to catch up with them, limping a little from how she'd been thrown.

"Samael!" she called. "Don't!"

Alex bolted for the staircase; Samael flipped his grip on the spear, cocked back his arm, and threw it.

* * *

At first Alex Shepherd wasn't sure what hit him, or whether the scream he'd heard had come from himself or from someone else.

Then, as the air came back to him he felt the veins of agony screaming out from his shoulder. _The spear_, he realized as Heather ran up to him and dropped to her knees; the Boogieman had _thrown the spear_. The tip had caught Alex in his injured shoulder, blown the air out of him, carried him to his knees, and pinned him hard to the metal of the elevator door.

"Alex!" Heather shouted, her hands reaching out to touch him.

The Boogieman gave a low grunt, surveying his handiwork from afar. Then he turned and headed back into the operating theater. Heather looked quickly at the monster, shouted a frustrated, "What the hell are you doing!?" and then quickly turned back to Alex and tried to grab the spear and pull it free.

Alex garbled out her name and nearly swooned; spots blotted out chunks of his vision. She released the spear and touched his face. With a shudder he managed to meet her gaze.

"Heather," he murmured.

"I won't let him do this," she hissed. "I'm going to KILL him if he comes at you again!"

"Him..." Alex muttered, dazed. There was something about her behavior, something about the fact that she hadn't drawn her weapon, that cued him in: "Heather... Am I dead?"

She laughed painfully, wiping away her tears with a forearm. "You just need a doctor," she promised him.

"No... Heath..." Alex took a slow breath while fingering the spear, and then looked her in the eyes again. "Did I die?"

Her face went gray and blank, and he could almost _see _a terrified denial rising up in her eyes, a war inside her, because she had and still refused to acknowledge an important Truth. "Alex-" she hesitated, and then jumped when they heard a loud shriek of metal from the operating theatre.

"I just got it," Alex said slowly, wincing and trying to shift so the spear hurt less. "I could only see a monster; I forgot about Valtiel. You said the monster's protecting you, right? Then, somehow I must be dangerous..."

"The fuck sense does that make!?" Heather exclaimed, pressing her fingers around the wound and trying to see if she could remove it without hurting him worse.

Alex grabbed her arm. "Heather," he said, voice cracking slightly. "Did you, or did you not watch me die?"

She stared at him wide eyed, and he felt her tremble. The shrieking of the great knife across the floor was made her whole body quake. "Alex," she whispered. A sinking sensation settled in his stomach. He looked up towards the shrieking noises and then closed his eyes.

"You need to let him kill me," he told her.

"No! What!? Why!? I'm not letting him-"

Alex squeezed her arm and looked up at her fiercely, jaw set as he resigned himself to what had to be done. "For the same reason Silent Hill made you put down a shade of Harry Mason," he whispered fiercely. "Heather, think. If I'm dead, then the _only_ thing Silent Hill could have brought me back for is to ruin your mental health and ultimately get you killed."

"Bullshit!" she snarled. "Look at Kaufmann, look at Lisa! You're here, I can touch you, I'm not going to leave you!"

"That's the problem," he told her. "They're dead; we're all dead. At the end of the day you can walk away from them and let them move on to whatever's next. But me? I'll get you _trapped_ here."

"I'm not leaving you!"

"That's what I'm saying, Heather! I'm some kind of ghost! You _have_ to leave me. Are you going to stay in this hell forever? If I'm dead, then _I'm_ _dead_. I can't leave this place. Just like you could never get Kaufmann to visit us outside of Silent Hill because he was _always dead_! It's even worse than that! Silent Hill is just going to use me to traumatize you or get you killed, the same as it did with Maria, and same as it did with the remnants of my dead parents and brother!"

* * *

Heather gaped at her fellow survivor, her twice-lover, her friend; someone whom she'd trusted, and whom she'd liked enough to be intimate with, even as she'd only just been getting to properly know him. 

Alex Shepherd swallowed. A moment later, he looked past her. The shrieking, she realized, had stopped. And Alex told her quietly, "You have to let him do this."

Heather's stomach felt as if it had dropped out of her body. She slowly twisted to look behind herself, dreading what she'd see. Samael was there, the Great Knife clutched in one hand, his gaze lowered to them.

"Wait," she whispered, slowly climbing to her feet. Samael stepped towards them, reaching back to grasp the knife's handle with both hands. "Wait, Samael!" she cried out, standing up and holding out her hands, despite obviously lacking the physical force to stop him. "Stop!" Samael did not obey her. "Wait!" He stepped around her and slipped one hand down the dull back of the blade with the intention of drawing it up from the ground in an underhand sweep. "Wait! Please!" She grabbed at him hysterically, trying to stop him. Muscles bunched under her hands.

"ALEX, WAIT!"

The monster flinched, stumbled slightly, and released the blade; his gaze darted towards her. "Please wait!" she shrieked, shaking violently, clutching at his arms. "Please-!" her voice dropped to nothing, weak and soft. She buried her face in his arm. "Please... Alex... _Please_, wait... Please just give me another minute... Please."

A moment passed in silence, in which she felt Samael's gaze on her, his head cocked to the side. Then his shoulders settled down an inch or so, and the muscles in his bicep and forearm slackened, and he eased the knife back into a neutral configuration.

Heather swallowed, mouth dry, and then turned slowly back to The Memory of Alex Shepherd, and sank trembling to her knees in front of him.

The Ghost of Alex stared at her, eyes wide in disbelief. "You called him-?" he began, then looked up at the Pyramid Monster and his disbelief melted in to sobered understanding. _"Oh."_

"Alex..." Heather began, voice shaking, tears in her eyes. The Ghost looked to her and then shuddered when she sank into him. She wrapped her arms about him as best she could. He winced past the spear wound and, though his injured arm would not obey him, he threw the other limb about her and hugged her to him as tightly as he knew how.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I let you die," she moaned helplessly, tears sliding down her face. "I let you die. I brought you in there and I let you die."

God. He dug his fingers into her shoulder and pressed his forehead to hers. "Takes two to tango," he whispered emotionally. "Wasn't your fault."

"You came back for me," she sobbed into him. "I locked up like a fucking spazz and let that _thing_ take me down, and _you came back_, and I-I-"

"It was worth it. _You're_ still here."

She choked on a sob and glared up at him, because sentiments like that could go both ways! He smiled weakly.

"I think I love you, Heather Mason," he told her, and then smirked. "No: I _know_ I do. For keeps. No degree of dead-ness can make me love you less."

"Fuck you. Don't leave me again," she begged. "Please. Please, _Alex_, don't leave me."

Alex grimaced and then slowly looked up at the Boogieman. The creature was watching them quietly, one hand still clenched around the hilt of the great knife. He sported numerous lacerations from nurse scalpels and rotary saws, but, beneath that, the symbolic crisscross of white scars was still plainly visible. 

"You... you're _made_ from us," The Ghost of Alex Shephard asked. "From ourselves, from shed pieces of us, aren't you?"

Samael gave a slight growl in turn.

But Alex continued: "You draw off our emotions, our hate, our frustration; that's the reason mine killed my dad."

Samael's fingers clenched slowly.

"Draw off me," Alex told it. "Take _everything_. All my hate, all my love, all my strength; everything I am, I give it to you _freely_."

"Alex," Heather protested, even as Samael slowly tilted his head to the side.

"I know I'm a manifestation. Not a real— Either I'm not real, or I'm just not alive. But if _anything_ of me _is_ real then take it," Alex continued, ignoring Heather's protests. "Take it to try and keep her _safe_. Please. You're more real than I am, you can do something to help her."

"He's the avatar of a god who wants to _kill me_," Heather spat in frustration. "I don't get to k-"

She heard the scrape of metal on metal and broke off mid-sentence, spinning around to look at Samael, who was lifting up the knife.

"Heather," Alex grimaced. "I love you. Don't watch."

"No!" Heather shouted. "Fuck no, stop- Wait- Pl-"

"Don't watch-"

"Alex!"

This time as she stood, Samael reached out and grabbed her. His fingers snagged about the back of her head and brought her crushingly to his chest, hiding her face.

The knife rose, and the knife fell. There was a devastatingly organic-sounding swipe. Heather went cold, her eyes opening wide. She did not look behind her; She didn't dare. Hell was silent except for the sound of Samael's inhuman breathing and the low bass of his heartbeat.

Then she was free of his hold and fleeing down the staircase, tears blinding her, her heart beating so hard it felt like it was going to explode out of her chest, her head pounding, and her whole body as numb and as painfully tingly as if it had fallen asleep.

* * *

The world was a shaking, meaningless chaos.

It was dawn, a part of her registered. The monsters had retreated, and the streets were empty. She sat at the curb, having long ago vomited out her dinner. Her head was in her hands and she was shaking violently among the bodies of slain Lying Figures and butchered dogs. Her katana jutted out from the corpse of a dead Spider Baby. There was nothing left to kill.

Heather could hear him a long time before she could see him. The shrieks were horrible; they ground along her spinal column and exploded up into her brain. She pressed her palms against her ears, but she had already bawled and hiccupped and now all she could do was tremble.

Alex Shepherd was dead. It wasn't something she or even Silent Hill could _unmake _any longer_. _He would not have blamed her for this, and she couldn't afford to blame herself any longer. She had to forgive herself and survive, to stop taking in more pain, because that was what he'd want her to do.

Skrriiiit. Skriiit. Inch by inch, stroke by stroke, she heard the horrible knife come closer. When at last it stopped she didn't dare look upwards, because she feared she might combust. There was silence for a bit, painful silence. Then she heard a scraping metallic sound as Samael must have leaned his knife up against a nearby wall.

A warm softness entered her thoughts. She tensed at the bizarre sensation, then convulsed as an overlarge hand settled against her hair and shoulder.

"I don't need you anymore," she whispered at last. "I know killing Edwin can't bring Alex back. All that's left to do is to stop the cult now and save my surviving friends. It took this long for Silent Hill to finally get that through my head. I won't forget it again." She took a slow breath. "Go away. I don't need you anymore."

His touch dropped away from her, and for a moment there was silence. The warm softness retreated slightly, grew gray and neutral, and twisted into a question. She saw an image of James Sunderland's twin Pyramid Monsters representing old and new blood. Each stood before an executioner's spear, and each lifted up their helm and dropped it upon the spear, driving each weapon upward into their own throats and heads. Each went still, blood spurting in gobs down their chests.

_What?_ Oh god.

An electric panic flew through Heather's stomach and she spun about, scrambling to her feet and clutching at Samael's skirts. "No!" she gasped.

He tilted his head to the side and then rumbled softly when she threw her arms about his waist. He knelt slightly and wrapped one forearm around her back, while his black tongue coiled around her head, under the back of the cap, and brushed up against her cheek.

"No, no, no!" she repeated, rubbing her face into the side skin, and then shuddering violently. "_Fuck_! Don't you _dare!_"

Her monster rumbled gently to her. She cursed again, her body shaking as Samael's innocent 'question' drove away the safe, protective numbness. "What are you?" she whispered, her voice tight. "Fuck, fuck, don't you_ dare_ kill yourself, don't you _dare _leave me here..."

Samael almost seemed ready to try and answer her, but suddenly they could both hear the high pitched squeal of rubber on pavement. He lifted his head and Heather released him, each of them looking confused down the street. Blindingly bright lights came live and for a moment Heather wasn't sure what was happening.

Then she realized she was about to be hit by a _car_, of all things.


	59. Aglaophotis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

The vehicle was scarcely a dozen yards away when Samael stepped forward.

He lifted his spear high and then dropped to his knee as he thrust the butt of the weapon downward. The spear made contact with the oncoming car's grill so hard that it lifted up the vehicle's rear wheel. He ducked his triangular head low.

Long before Heather registered what exactly had transpired, the car was flying through the air over her head.

It landed on its rear bumper far behind her, with a loud bang and a shattering of of glass; it bounced a little, teetered slightly, and then listed forward and landed loudly on all four of its wheels. Remarkably, the airbag had successfully deployed.

Heather gaped at the car for a moment. Then she looked to Samael who was standing up and, aside from a few scuff marks on his helm, appeared uninjured.

"You flipped a car!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air for emphasis. Then she hurried over to go retrieve her katana. "What the hell?! How did you get your knife stuck in a door earlier?"

Samael tilted his head to the side.

"You _flipped_ a speeding _car_!"

Samael seemed to find her sustained commentary amusing.

Heather was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a car door opening and both she and Samael turned to see who the heck had tried to run her over. _Was this an accident or is someone actually trying to kill me? Cultist or survivor?_

The woman who stepped out of the vehicle looked almost boring: Like any ordinary PTA mom. She was short and a little dumpy, with makeup choices that demonstrated a poor grasp of tone and color, and a carefully tidy haircut that somehow remained un-frazzled despite the liberal application of a flipped car and an airbag.

"Hello, Heather," the woman said with a big red smile, and then calmly lifted up a handgun.

Samael bellowed and charged forward to get between the two women.

Heather recoiled in surprise, not because she was facing down the barrel of a gun, but because she'd _recognized_ this woman's fake and plastic expression. She'd seen it before. She'd seen it on the face of a 'nurse.' She'd seen it on that day Alex Shepherd had died. This woman was one of the three people who had carved him apart.

The woman smiled just a little more, looking fearless and smug in the face of a god. She merely refocused her gun sights on him and squeezed the trigger.

_Pain._

Heather reeled. Samael _screamed_. He jerked backwards from the bullet's impact, his spear dropping numbly from his now useless arm. There was a hole in his shoulder that blossomed red, and he clutched at the wound as any normal man might.

Heather grasped her head as spots clouded her vision, feeling pain searing like white hot fire across her skull. Was she injured? Had she been shot? No. No, she was feeling _Samael's _pain. Wincing, disoriented, and still emotionally winded by everything that had happened over the past hours, Heather staggered in place, her mouth open in horror, and did nothing. She didn't know _what_ to do. 

The plastic-smiling cultist adjusted her aim and squeezed the trigger again; this time she couldn't repress a little hum of pleasure as she fired. Samael must have seen the shot coming because he ducked just in time and caught the slug on a pane of his helmet. Burn lines spit out from the impact site as if he'd been struck by acid. He stumbled backwards and collapsed to his knees upon the pavement, his fingers digging into the skin around his arm.

"Samael!" Heather screamed.

"Don't move!" the cultist called cheerfully.

Heather blanched and looked back towards the strange unassuming little woman, her eyes wide.

"That's right. Hello, dear. Do you remember me?."

"What... what did you... _do_ to him?" Heather sputtered in disbelief.

"I reminded the demon where it belongs," the woman told her. "_Below_ the will of God, and in service to the faithful. Really, did you think a creature of darkness could _protect_ you? I was going to make the proper sacrifices to gain control of him... but in the end I realized this was _much_ cleaner. Demon pacts can be so messy, and I didn't want to leave a bunch of loose ends untied just for irony's sake."

Samael was writhing in place. Heather looked at him in morbid, fascinated horror: There were distended veins spreading out from the gunshot wound, and it seemed as though _something _were inside the wound. She looked back to the cult woman in amazement. "_What_ did you do!?"

"Weren't you listening?" the woman asked her impatiently, then she shook her head and sighed, deciding to explain as she might talk to a child: "Demons are simple things, little dove. They seem the perfect tools at first: Point them in a direction, give them a tight leash, and they cause all sorts of chaos. But against God's love, what power could chaos truly have? We faithful have the protection of the sacred magics and the guidance of angels to lean on. To defeat you, all I needed was two specialty made bullets of Algaophotis. The herb is a purgative for banishing demonic energy; and in a few minutes your little toy will be dust."

"You _bitch..._" Heather muttered, reaching for her own side arm before remembering Alex—or, the memory of Alex—had taken the weapon from her and she hadn't reclaimed it.

"Now, now, be civil," Patricia told her patiently. "This is no time to be insulting your betters. My next bullet is quite normal, and I assure you I have no problem killing you. It isn't _my_ sect who believes you're the Mother of God, and as much as I'd like to march you home and show you off live to Edwin, I'll happily put you down like the sick little puppy you are."

Heather lowered her hand, the sensation of horrified incredulity slowly dissipating. "Who are you?" she asked the woman, baffled by how _plain_ she appeared to be.

She was dumpy and pear-shaped, and her jean Capris had been unsuccessful in hiding the dimpling of cellulite along her legs. She was not exactly fat. Rather, she was an average American with a little pot-belly and likely stretch marks from one or two children. Her blouse was unflattering but modern; her hair was dark blonde and clipped neatly to the side with a little blue bow; her earrings were boring little studs; she was _normal_.

"I'm Patricia Ackerman," the woman explained. "High Priestess of the Sect of the Holy Mother. Now, drop that little knife of yours and hurry along, and don't get any ideas thinking any of your nasty little beasties will be able to help you. As helpless as you might truly be, I don't appreciate watching naughty children try to cause me trouble, and I will not tolerate any conjuring attempts."

Heather lifted her eyes to Patricia's face. Then she looked back to Samael. "Are you okay? Can you get up?"

"Oh... That's _sweet_, you talk to him like a little puppy." Patricia shook her head at Heather's naivety. "You've forgotten your basic conjuring lessons, child. You can't really control a demon; They have terrible steering. And no flattery will get you anywhere with them; they _always_ take their pound of flesh. You should have looked to the heavens for protection instead of the darkness. You picked the _wrong_ tool for the job. Typical. Immature."

"You... _Go_," Heather told the demon. Samael whined and moaned, denying the command. "_Dissipate,_" Heather hissed, a lump forming in her throat. "Do that thing you and Walter can do, with the rust!" Samael tried to make a plaintive noise, but his voice cut off with pain.

"I _said_ come along," Patricia said in warning. "Don't make me ask a third time."

Heather looked back towards Patricia. She took in a slow breath and then turned her katana over in her hand, and dropped it to the ground.

"Very good," Patricia approved, smiling happily. "Good girl. Come on."

Heather obeyed. She walked forward slowly at first, then faster. She didn't look at Samael, keeping her eyes on Patricia's own. The woman was prim and simple on the outside, but her gaze was cold, blue, and almost manic.

Samael made a low croaking noise from somewhere behind Heather, and then rust rippled up around him and his body began to dissolve into Silent Hill, into Nowhere. Heather kept walking forward until she was only a few feet ahead of Patricia's gun barrel. The woman looked her up and down and smiled almost gently, lifting out an arm as if to welcome her to an exclusive and safe little club.

"Good girl," Patricia praised again.

"Which way?" Heather asked, and Patricia gestured.

"Right along that way, dear. Go on."

Heather nodded but did not move.

Patricia tilted her head to the side. "Is there a _problem _dear?" she stressed in a way that suggested there better not be. "I hope you know that delaying won't help you. I've warded the route home, you see. I paid attention to how you called all those little demons in to us at the church and tried to get them to overrun us. It won't work this time; nothing's coming for you."

"You've forgotten something important," Heather told her flatly.

Patricia's eyes closed to a half-lidded state. "Oh?" she asked. "And what is that?"

"I'm Alessa Gillespie," Heather told her, glaring out from under the brim of her cap. "I'm the Witch Queen. I'm Silent Hill. I'm _God_."

Patricia scowled. "You are _not _a god, sweetheart. Just a confused little girl who needs a spanking from her mother. I really do hope someone can help you out of your blasphemy. Come along."

"And you?" Heather asked. "What are you?"

"I've had enough of this conversation, girl. I _will _have to use this brutish little tool on you if you don't behave. Come along."

"_I_ am Alessa Gillespie. But _you_?" she shook her head, feeling a smoldering sensation about her eyes instead of the heat of tears. "You're just some random bitch who killed my boyfriend."

* * *

Patricia frowned, and tilted her head to the side. Just what was this little tart trying to accomplish? She hoped her face conveyed how sour this attitude had made her. She opened her mouth to say something, and then froze, staring, as the barrel of her gun began to _move_.

The tip of the weapon _wiggled_ slightly, turned, and then drooped. Her eyes widened as she realized the weapon was growing unbearably hot, and when she dropped it with a yelp it splattered red-hot over the ground. Patricia looked at her hand and then lifted her gaze in surprise to Heather's.

The girl's eyes were not gray, nor blue. They glowed _orange, _like hell fire. Her expression was merciless.

"What-?" Patricia hissed, spooked.

Heather shook her head once more and then backed up a step. Where her feet left the pavement tongues of bright yellow flame blossomed gracefully across the asphalt. 

A flurry of leaves and grit blew both women's hair, and there was a roar of air from behind them. Patricia twisted about in surprise. Rust rushed into the space behind her, whirling upwards into the eight-foot shape of a very familiar demon.

"That's impossible," Patricia snapped, looking around at where she and her men had inscribed runes on either side of the street. What she saw made her briefly furious, but then made her blood run cold: To the left, the tree her runes had been inscribed upon her suddenly burst into flame; on her left, the car she'd marked was steadily imploding. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Impossible you can't, no one can-"

"I can't?" Heather asked stonily. "I already _did_."

* * *

Samael appeared with his spear in hand. He brought the shaft into Patricia's shoulder with a mighty sweep, taking her out from standing. She hit the asphalt with a heavy thud and looked stunned. Samael stepped over her.

"Wait," Patricia croaked, dazed as Samaeal hunkered down. The touch of demonic flesh groping about her body must have jerked her out of her stupor: "Wait!" she shrieked. "Wait! Wait, tell him to wait!"

"Wait," Heather agreed. Samael looked at her.

"I can help you!" Patricia cried out. "I was wrong, I was wrong and I'm sorry, I didn't understand! I didn't know you had this power, I didn't mean to cross you! Think of your friends! I can make sure they're safe, I can steer Edwin away! Make your demon spare me and I'll-"

"_-make_ him spare you?" Heather interrupted. "Weren't you the one who said demons cannot be controlled? I think you said they had terrible steering once you pointed them in a direction?"

"Clearly I was wrong-!" Patricia sputtered. "It obeyed you, and I see that now! I was wrong when I said you'd picked the wrong tool. Please, call off your hound, I-"

"A dog, a tool, and a toy," Heather enumerated Patricia's words for Samael without breaking the woman's gaze. She shook her head slightly, brows drawn. "You awful, selfish, pathetic little woman. He is _Xuchibara. _There is nothing in heaven or on earth that can make him do _anything _except for as he chooses."

Samael lifted his helm in surprise, and heavy steam of hot air puff out of his metal vents in the cold December air. 

"You are his conjurer!" Patricia protested.

The demon looked down at Patricia. A rumble of excitement oozed out of him. He reached down and grabbed one of her legs, dragging her out into the middle of the road.

Patricia screamed, grabbing at the ground, her poorly manicured fingernails leaving tracks behind. "Please!" she screamed. "Alessa, have pity! You are his conjurer! Stop him!" Heather frowned. Patricia began to panic in the least helpful of manners: "Oh God, I know this sinner must wish to repent," she began to pray, "fill her heart with Mercy and redirect your Wrath from this faithful soul! Ah!"

"You keep using that word, 'conjurer,'" Heather said in the same deadpan as before. "You seem to think it implies 'master.' Doesn't that violate those basic conjury lessons you were mentioning?"

Samael transferred his spear back to his good hand. Patricia tried to get up and he swatted her with the butt. _"Ah! _Bu-but I watched the demon obey you!" Patricia exclaimed. "You melted my weapon in my hand and destroyed my wards! Clearly you are master over _me_. Only spare me and I will help you, I will lead you towards the path of righteousness and into the arms of the angels, and you need never rarely to the barbaric demands of demons!"

"You don't seemed to understand," Heather told her in that same voice, her world still rimmed in an orange glow. "So let me try to explain one last time: _I'm_ not in control right now. _He_ is. All I did was open a door for him to get behind you; it's _he _who wants to kill you right now. You should be begging _him_ for forgiveness, not me."

"I-I don't understand!" Patricia wailed. "What mercy would a demon give to anyone-"? Then she squealed like a startled pig when the spear came piercing down through her back. It sank into the asphalt half a foot beneath her stomach. Her mouth opened wide and she gaped like a fish.

"I don't know," Heather answered. "But I get the impression you're not going to find out."

Samael knelt down, reaching out to grasp at Patricia's back. He tore her clothing, ripping away her blouse. Patricia flailed and coughed out blood and prayed. She was hysterical and well beyond the point of hearing Heather.

"I might not know anything about conjury," Heather said, anyway, "but I'm pretty sure basic manners dictate that when you don't want a dead man to kill you, you should probably start off by apologizing for killing them."

Samael went down on one knee and settled his foot on the doomed woman's back. With his good hand he grasped up the rolls of flesh around her lumbar in a tight fist. His muscles flexed. Patricia's eyes rolled and her limbs fanned out and strained and flopped helplessly. Heather was pretty sure what she was about to witness was physically impossible. Then she thought back to a Discovery Channel program where she'd watched a man skin a rabbit. She closed her eyes.

She heard a series of grotesque ripping and snapping noises, and the squealing of a stuck pig. 

* * *

When Heather opened her eyes again, Samael was roaring triumphantly over the bloodied cadaver of a plump and twitching woman. He threw the skinned hide down over top of it and then looked excitedly towards Heather Mason, his fingers quivering with enthusiasm for the kill.

Heather trembled, all of the heat and vengeance melting out of her. "Is that what you were going to do to all those nurses?" she asked.

Samael crooned.

Heather grimaced. Well, at least that was somehow less-creepy than wanting to molest him.

Pain throbbed at the edge of her consciousness, and Heather gradually became aware that Samael was listing to the side. With his adrenaline subsiding the demon's was starting to look _ill_. He staggered his feet out to avoid toppling over, and then reached up to clutch white-knuckled at his wounded shoulder. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and approached him. 

"Samael," Heather whispered, reaching his side just as he collapsed to his knees. She barely managed to dodge the weight of the helmet, and crouched down to help him. "Let me look," She coaxed him, ducking under the helm and reaching up to touch the hand he'd clamped over his shoulder. "Samael?"

The monster growled softly, sinking backwards to a seated position and slowly uncovering his wound. The sight of it made Heather sick to her stomach. The bullet wound itself had grown in size, to a gaping laceration three inches across on its longest dimension. Raised lines stood out a quarter of an inch across his skin, spreading out inflamed red veins all over his shoulder, collar, arm, and upper chest. The fingertips of his injured arm were turning black. His breathing was labored and hoarse.

"This is as bad as she said it was," Heather muttered, framing her hands around the injury and trying to purse open the edges of the wound.

Samael gave a short, hard roar and reached out to stabilize himself against the ground with his good hand. He didn't lash out at her, though his helmet swayed from side to side, and she had to avoid getting beamed by it.

The wound was stiff with inflammation. When Heather pressed around it, black ooze trickled out of the swollen pores. "It's still getting worse," she muttered. She slung her pack off from her shoulder and opened it up, digging around on the inside. Travis had packed her an emergency medical kit, and when she popped it open and rummaged through it she found a pair of tweezers and a pocket knife. She took out both. "Try to hold steady," she told him. "I'm going to dig the shell out."

The monster gave an exceptionally deep nod, struggling with the weight of his helmet. Heather's shoulder flashlight was still active, so she braced her forearms against him, lined up the light and then pressed the knife inward to push the wound open.

Samael gave a sharp and ragged inhale. He remained perfectly still through several more agonizing breaths. After fishing around, Heather tweezed out the fragments of a brass casing from the entry wound. She dropped it with disgust on the ground and then picked up a bottle of saline and tried to flush the wound. Some black ichor and a great deal of blood came out.

"Okay. Now what?" Heather muttered. "She said the Aglaophotis would destroy you. The bullet must have been filled with the stuff, and when it crumpled on impact it released the herbal preparation into you. I need to clean it _out. _But how? Aglaophotis is _red! _It's the exact same color as blood! The same color, the same transparency, the same thickness. I don't even know how to tell if I'm getting any out now!"

A crazy solution occurred to her, based on remedies for snake bites in old western movies. Aglaophotis might have _appeared_ identical to blood, but it did not smell or taste the same. She looked up at Samael, who was starting to have trouble holding his head aloft. The distended red veins were visibly spreading; some were traveling up the side of his neck.

"I..." _Alex__. Samael. _"I'm out of my mind," Heather whispered. Then she pulled off her trucking cap and tossed it to the side. She got up higher on her knees, dropped her implements, wrapped her arms about the monster's shoulder, and pressed her face into the wound.

Immediately the first thing she could taste was the herb. Slightly horrified by the task she'd just voluntarily committed to, but feeling triumphant that it would actually work, she sucked at the damage tissue. Aglaophotis was dangerous to him, not her; it was _meant _to help humanity. She pushed her tongue into the wound to force it open.

Samael twitched violently at the intrusion. Then he tried to stare down at her, perhaps in disbelief. His leathery skin had begun to sweat, and his temperature was cold.

Heather spit out that first mouthful of Aglaophotis, but ended up swallowing the next to try and work faster. The bitter taste of the herb was so strong it masked the usually rich iron taste of blood. This was fortunate, as Heather didn't want to have to think about what she was doing. If she drank some demon blood, then so be it; she was also drinking Aglaophotis, and Aglaophotis was a holy purgative. She kept prying at the wound, looking for pockets of bitterness and blocking the disgusting concept of this activity from her mind.

Slowly, moment by moment, minute by minute, the clamminess faded from under her fingertips. His temperature began to normalize against her arms and face, and his breathing lost its hoarse tremble. As his rapid heartbeat began to settle, the taste of herb became thinner and thinner. Eventually she was sure she'd just gotten a mouthful of nothing but blood, and no matter how she pried she couldn't find the taste of Aglaophotis any longer.

With a grimace Heather pulled her face back and coughed out the red liquid. She felt sick for fairly obvious reasons, and her face was covered in red. She couldn't smell anything but blood and herbs. Heather wiped her mouth and then grimaced when her hand, wrist, and forearm all came away coated in red. She looked up at Samael, who appeared to be watching her. The veins had retreated, and she gave a shuddering sigh of relief at the sight of this.

"A-Are you okay?" she asked anyway, still wanting to be sure. She pulled her sleeve out a bit and then wiped it liberally over her face. Yuck.

Samael didn't make a sound, but she felt an answer between them: Yes.

Good.

Heather's stomach began to rebel. She gagged and then turned away from him. A convulsion rippled through her. Her mouth started to salivate. She gagged again, and again convulsed, and then she was vomiting out copious amounts of herbally infused demon blood. It was actually not the most revolting thing that had ever physically happened to her; the winner of that particular competition was still vomiting out a dead baby god's fetus.

When the earth stopped swirling and she could see clearly again, Samael was hunched over her with one hand braced against the ground, and his tongue was holding her hair out of her face. She shuddered, gagging and spitting out pink saliva. Then, wiping her face of phlegm, she looked shakily up at her demon. He mumbled softly and released her hair; his tongue brushed gently over her face.

"Well," Heather muttered hoarsely, "today sucks so far." Samael mumbled in agreement. She eased herself back into a kneeling position and then lifted her hand to touch his helm, where Aglaophotis had pitted the metal like acid. It looked like the metal had largely resisted the attack, perhaps because the bullet hadn't been able to penetrate the surface before losing its payload.

She released another shuddering breath and leaned her cheek upon the cool metal. She tried to ply her grumpy tone: "Next time you want to flip out on me, you'd better remember me with my face covered in blood sucking poison out of your wounds and then vomiting all over the place."

Heather heard the soft, metallic equivalent of a chuckle passing through the helm. A weak smile spread over her face. She sniffled and wiped fresh tears from her face. Samael sat gingerly down. His arm settled around her, pulling her stiffly up into his lap.

Heather squeezed her arms around the rough edges of the helm. Then the tears just kept falling, and this time she figured it was going to be some time before a coping mechanism or her iron-willed self control managed to stop them.

"Don't die," she croaked helplessly. "I already told you that, jerkface, so pay attention this time. _Don't die._"

* * *

"We should be heading up towards Central Silent Hill in case she needs us," Douglass groused. Walter rolled his eyes, irritated by the old detective. The company was out on rowboats, crossing from the Lighthouse down towards the southern coast of Toluca Lake. They'd gone far enough that turning around now was ridiculous.

"We went over this," Eileen argued back, because she was the one who had given Travis the most hell for letting Heather out alone and so she had the most authority to disagree with following the girl. "We promised Heather we wouldn't do anything to get ourselves killed. The best way of helping her right now is to go wherever Heather's _not_ going."

Douglass just growled to himself. "At least let me row," he demanded of them. One boat had Henry, Eileen, Travis, and Douglass; the other held Walter, Lauren, James, Murphy and Elle. With only five paddles and one boat more heavily laden than the others, there had been a dispute who would be rowing. In the end, all of the older men lost the fight and Walter never volunteered to help in the first place.

"If he's not rowing," Laura said, pointing at Travis with her paddle, "_You're_ not rowing!"

Travis looked miserable. He was a trucker, and used to being the operator of whatever vehicle he was currently riding in. Being a passenger after so many years was weird.

"We should both be rowing!" Douglass roared. "Not you girls!"

"Le' gasp!" Laura cried, offended. "Sexism! That's it, Eileen, give the two old goats their paddles and we'll throw Murphy's in the lake. This is a race! We'll cream your asses!"

"How can you be so happy?" Elle grumbled, though the work was helping to keep her mind off things.

"Why would I pick to be unhappy?" Laura demanded, "It makes it a lot harder to get shit done." (Travis grumpily wondered if maybe Laura hadn't absorbed some Heather-ness by accident; or if Heather had absorbed some Laura.) "So, have we decided if we're going to the other hospital yet, or to the art museum?"

"You will be wasting time going after all of them in a group," Walter told them. "Split up; half of us go for Truth, half for Falsehood. Afterwards the other pieces will be easy enough to go for in twos or threes."

"Yeah right," Douglass murdered. "I'm guessing you want to stay in the boat heading going for Falsehood?"

"How did you guess?" Walter perked up.

"Cause if ya ain't there for Truth, Henry dies," Douglass muttered flatly.

The serial murderer giggled. "There's a way for me to help both groups at once," he said.

"How?" Laura asked.

"Wait a moment," Walter promised her.

Laura frowned. Everyone frowned. Suddenly expecting something terrible to happen, they stilled their paddles and strained their ears. For a moment they heard only silence. Then three people nearly leaped out of their skin when suddenly Lady Gaga's Poker Face started playing.

"What the hell just happened?" Eileen exclaimed.

Laura swore and tossed her paddle to Murphy (who caught it one-handed without much trouble despite the fact that Laura had practically flung it at his head) and then dug around in her pack. The whole party turned to look as she produced her cell phone and blinked at it in confusion. Poker Face was apparently her ring tone. She pressed the talk button.

"Hello?" she asked bewildered into the receiver.

* * *

Sitting on the curb outside of Alchemilla, watching Samael retrieve his spear from Patricia Ackerman's corpse, Heather smirked.

"I _knew_ you'd have it on you," she laughed when Laura answered the phone. "I forgot to tell anyone cell phones work here."

"It's Heather!" she heard the girl exclaim some distance from the phone. "She says our phones still work!" There was a murmur of excited voices on the other side and Heather smiled. "Hold on," Laura said to her, "I'll put you on speaker phone." Laura was already fiddling with the buttons and a moment later a small bleep alerted Heather to the fact that speaker phone had been activated.

"Heather?" Henry asked first, and she could hear the creaking of what she imagined might be boats.

"Yo, I'm alive," she told them, and she was greeted by a clamor of voices both chastising her and expressing relief for her safety.

"What happened?" Eileen asked. "You're in huge trouble by the way. Do you need our help?"

"I'm fine," Heather reassured them. "I don't have long before the monsters start showing up again, but I had a momtn to breath and... and I just wanted to tell you about the phones. You're outside then?"

"We're heading south over the lake," Eileen told her. "We're keeping our distance."

Heather nodded to herself and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Sounds good." Samael had retrieved the spear and was leaning heavily on it as a walking stick. He came up to stand before her again and licked the air, glancing at where he'd placed the great knife.

"Is the Pyramid Monster still with you?" Laura wondered.

"He's trying to make up his mind whether he likes spears or knives better," Heather answered wryly. "Don't worry Laura, I'm checking out his ass for you. Still looking good. Grade A dehumanized mansteak."

Laura squeaked and giggled helplessly to the disapproving looks of several older men and one very perplexed Walter.

_"What?"_ Elle exclaimed, horrified.

"Elle?" Heather winced. "Sorry, bad taste. I'm a little out of it."

"Aren't you in Alchemilla?" Travis asked, brows furrowed as he tried to figure out exactly what provoked this call.

"Heh, I _was_," Heather answered, rubbing her face. Images of the ghost of Alex Shepherd flickered through her mind. She looked back up at Samael and sighed. "I'll be heading back inside in a second."

"You don't need anything?" Travis pressed.

"I..." Heather hesitated. "I guess I just wanted to hear everyone's voices for a sec," she confessed, uncomfortable with explaining herself to so many people at once. "The hospitals in this city blow. I've gotta go."

"We're fine, and we plan on staying that way," Travis told her firmly. "Looks like Douglass and I both have our phones out of habit. If you need anything, give us a call."

"Alright," Heather agreed, getting up and steadying herself. She could hear those damn, flaming spider-babies giggling about in the distance, and she wanted to get off the street. Samael still wasn't looking so good.

"Heath-"

She walked over to where she'd dropped her katana and scooped it up. "Look, I've got to go."

"Heather, be _careful_," Travis told her because it was obvious something big had happened and Heather needed to keep her head up.

"Yeah yeah, whatever, monsters coming, love you too dad," Heather muttered irritated and hung up the phone. Then she paused and gave the little device a bewildered double-take.

Eileen blinked when Heather hung up the phone, and then looked over at a fairly surprised looking Travis. " 'Dad?' " she asked. The trucker blinked innocently at Mrs. Townshend and then just sat back in the rowboat and rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair.

"Sometimes I wonder," was all he could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually enjoying brushing up these chapters. Getting the language into the bounds of my present style & skill level is really good practice. I'll have to go back and do the early chapters that I skipped when I started this transfer project last year.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like me as an Author you are free to check out my profile, or find us on [Discord!](https://discord.gg/MsSfwNb) Otherwise just leave me loads of comments. I love comments <3


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